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REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D 


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PRINCETON   THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


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LYRICS   OF  LOYALTY. 


The  Red,   White,  and  Blue  Series. 

IN  PRESS: 
Uniform    with    this    Volume. 


I. 

SONGS  OF  THE  SOLDIERS. 

II. 

PERSONAL  AND  POLITICAL  BALLADS 

OF    THE    WAR. 


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RANGED  AND  EDIlSGjttflff/f}^  gf^\\^ 
FRANK   MOORE 


NEW   YORK 

GEORGE    P.    PUTNAM 

1864 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1863,  by 

George  P.   Putnam, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District 
of  New  York. 


RIVERSIDE,     0AMBEID8I: 

STEREOTYPED    AND    PRINTED    BY    II.    O.    HOUGHTON. 


NOTE. 

The  purpose  of  this  collection  is  to  preserve 
some  of  the  best  specimens  of  the  Lyrical  Writings 
-which  the  present  Rebellion  has  called  forth.  The 
limited  space  afforded  by  a  single  volume  has  com- 
pelled the  editor  to  enlarge  the  work  by  adding  a 
Second  and  a  Third  Series,  which  will  be  issued  at 
an  early  day.  The  Second  Series  will  embrace 
the  Songs  of  the  Soldiers,  and  Ballads  of  the  Re- 
bellion ;  while  the  Personal  and  Political  epics  and 
rhymes,  which  have  been  produced  on  the  Rebel  as 
well  as  National  side  of  the  contest,  will  be  given 

in  the  Third  Series. 

F.  M. 

New  York,  December,  1863. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Our  Country's  Call W.  C  Bryant 1 

Great  Bell  Roland Theodore  Tilton 4 

Forward John  Pierpont 8 

The  Parting Anonymous 10 

The  Soldier's  Good-by Mary  E.  Nealy 14 

The  Woods  of  Tennessee Anonymous 17 

A  Call  to  the  Brave Anonymous 18 

The  Volunteer's  Wife  to  her  Hus- 
band  Anonymous 20 

Our  Country  is  Calling F.  H.  Hedge,  D.D...  23 

The  Voice  of  the  North J.  G.  Whittier 24 

On  Guard John  G.  Nicolay 26 

The  Cavalry  Charge F.  A.  Durivage 28 

Snow  Sculpture G.  W,  Bungay 31 

Soldier's  Morning  Song C.  T.  Brooks 33 

After  the  Battle E.  L.  R 35 

A  Mother  Waiting  for  the  News. 2).  M.  Menamin 37 

He  Sleeps  where  He  fell Anonymous 30 

The  Red  Stain  on  the  Leaves. . .  G.  W.  Bungay 40 

The  Soldier's  Mother Anonymous 41 

The  Dead  Drummer-Boy Anonymous 44 

A  National  Hymn Park  Benjamin 4G 

Avenged Orpheus  C.  Kew 47 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Flag  of  the  Constellation T.  B.  Read 52 

War  Song W.  H.  C.  Eosmer...  53 

The  Flag  of  the  Sky Anonymous 55 

To  day Joel  Benton 56 

Following  the  Drum Anonymous 58 

The  Union '..... F.  D.  II.  Janvier. . .  59 

The  Battle Ruth  N.  Cromwell. . .  61 

The  Dying  Soldier Anonymous 63 

Head  of  the  Column Edward  Willett 66 

The  Soldier's  Letter Anonymous 68 

God  Save  the  Nation Theodore  Tilton  ....  70 

The  Men  who  fell  at  Baltimore. . .  J.  W.  Forney 71 

The  Picket  Guard E.  H. 74 

War  Song W.  W.  Story 78 

Ellsworth Anonymous 80 

Freedom Martin  F.  Tupper  . .  82 

The  Volunteer Anonymous 83 

War  Song Anonymous 83 

Bethel A.  J.  H.  Duganne . .  85 

Northmen,  Come  out C.  G.  Leland 90 

Pro  Patria T.  B.  Aldrich 92 

The  Picket-Guard Ethel  Lynn  Beers. . .  93 

The  Holy  War H.  B.  Stowe 94 

July  21,  1861 A.  M.  Warner 98 

To  the  Men   of  the  North  and 

West R.  II.  Stoddard 101 

Harvard  Student's  Song Julia  Ward  Iloive. .  103 

Kiss  me,  Mother,  and  let  me  go..N.  A.  W.  Priest. . .  105 

A  Mother's  Answer Anonymous 106 

The  Battle  Summer H.   T.   Tucherman. .  109 

A  Rainy  Day  in  Camp Mrs.  R.  S.  Ilowland.  Ill 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

By  the  Banks  of  the  Cumberland.  S.  C.  Mercer 115 

The  Flower  of  Liberty 0.  W.  Holmes 116 

News  from  the  War Anonymous 118 

March Bayard  Taylor 121 

Across  the  Lines Ethel  Lynn  Beers. . .   123 

The  Captain's  Wife Theodore  Tilton  ....  126 

The  Defenders T.B.  Read 129 

Carte  de  Visite Anonymous 131 

Lyon H.P 133 

Keep   Step   with  the  Music  of 

Union W.  Ross  Wallace. . .  136 

The  Soldier's  Dream  of  Home. .  Caroline  A.  Mason. .   139 

The  Response Caroline  A.  Mason. .   141 

Bring  the  Hero  Home Anonymous 143 

A  Battle  Hymn George  H.  Bolcer. . .  146 

Our  Wounded C.  K.  Tuckerman. . .  148 

At  Evening   Time  it   shall    be 

Light C.  F. 149 

Trumpet  Song 0.  W.  Holmes 150 

Put  it  Through Anonymous 152 

Roll  Call N.  G.  Shepherd....  154 

"Picciola" Anonymous 156 

Move  on  the  Columns W.  D.  Gallagher. . .  159 

Lander T.B.  Aldrich 162 

Gently !  Gently ! Eugene  H.  Munday.  164 

Not  Yet W.  C.Bryant 165 

March  Along George  H.  Boker....  167 

The  Union  —  Right  or  Wrong. .  G.  P.  Morris 169 

Gone  to  the  War Horatio  Alger,  Jr. . .   170 

To  the  United  States Mayne  Reid. 172 

Battle  Anthem. John  Neal 174 


x  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Boy  Brittan Forceytke  Willson. . .  176 

The  Last  Broadside E.  T.  P.  Beach 181 

Call  for  True  Men Robert  Lowell 183 

Voyage  of  the  Good  Ship  Union.  0.  W.  Holmes 184 

The  Bible  and  the  Shell C.  W.  Denl&on 188 

Song  for  our  Soldiers Alice  Cary 189 

The  Volunteer E.  Jefferson  Culler. .  191 

Then  and  Now Anonymous 192 

The  Cumberland //.  W.  Longfdlow.. .  194 

On  the  Shores  of  Tennessee Ethel  Lynn  Beers. . .  197 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier G.  H.  Boker 201 

The  Cumberland Anonymous 202 

Stars  in  my  Country's  Sky L.  II.  Sigourney 203 

Old  Faneuil  Hall E.  E.  Hale 205 

Our  Union  and  Our  Flag Ruth  N.  Cromwell. ..  207 

The  Two  Furrows C.  II.  Webb 209 

Shall  Freedom  Droop  and  Die. .  .C.  G.  Leland 21 1 

This  Day  Countrymen Robert  Lowell 212 

Mitchel W.  F.  Williams. ...  213 

Why Richard  Starrs  Willis  215 

When    the    Great    Rebellion  's 

Over Anonymous 217 

A  Cheer  for  the  Brave Caroline  A.  Howard  219 

Our  Country's  Call John  Pierponl 220 

The  Old  Ship  of  State David  Barker 222 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic Julia  Ward  J/owe. .  221 

"  Out  in  the  Cold  " Anonymous 225 

"  A  Voice  without  an  Echo  " C.  K.  Tuckerman. .  228 

The  Prayer  of  a  Nation W.  II.  BwrU  igh ....  2:>i) 

The  Word Foray  the  Willson.. .  232 

The  Present  Crisis Janus  Russill  Lowtll  234 


CONTENTS.  xi 

PAGE 

Abraham  Lincoln W.  D.  Gallagher. . .  238 

The  Proclamation John  G.  Whittier. . .  239 

An  Appeal 0.  W.  Holmes 241 

The  New  Reveille W.  0.  Bourne 243 

To  Canaan! 0.  W.Holmes 245 

The  Patriot  Girl  to  her  Lover. . .  George   Vandenhoff..  248 

Who  's  Ready Edna  D.  Proctor. ...  249 

The  Snow  at  Fredericksburg Anonymous 251 

Boston  Hymn R.  Waldo  Emerson. .  253 

To  my  Children Anonymous 257 

The  Refugee Samuel  Eckel 258 

The  First  Fire J.J.  Piatt 260 

Tho  Soldier's  Death N.  A.  W.  Priest. . .  2G4 

After  the  Victories Howard  Glyndon 206 

Our  Union Alfred  B.  Street 268 

The  Fisherman  of  Beaufort Francis  D.  Gage. . .  270 

United  States  National  Anthem.  W.  Ross  Wallace. . .  272 

Ode H.  T.  Tuckerman...  273 

Ho !  Sons  of  the  Puritan Anonymous 275 

A  Plaint  from  Savage's G.  A.  Townsend 278 

The  Varuna G.  H.  Boker 280 

The  Battle  Anthem  of  1862 J.  G.  Whittier 281 

Our  Country Anonymous 283 

Sympathy L.  H.  Sigourney 285 

Claribel's  Prayers Anonymous '  286 

Christmas  and  New  Year,  1862, 

1863 Lucy  I^arcom 289 

The  Color-Sergeant A.  D.  F.  Randolph. .  292 

Massachusetts B.  P.  ShiUaber 295 

The  Soldier's  Sweetheart G.  W.  Bungay 297 

The  Rising  of  the  North J.  N.  M. 299 


xii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Cavalry  Charge E.  C.  Stedman 301 

The  Widowed  Sword Anonymous 302 

The  Chant  of  Treason Henry  Bergh 304 

The  Fallen  Soldier Anonymous 307 

The  Drummer-Boy  of  Marble- 
head  Anonymous 309 

The  Soldier's  Little  Daughter. . .  M.  A.  Denison 311 

Last  Words Horatio  Alger,  Jr. . .  314 

The  Furlough Anonymous 318 

Spring  at  the  Capital Mrs.  Paul  Akers. . .  320 

The  Regiment  Returned Park  Benjamin 323 

Voice  of  the  Northern  Women .  .Phoebe  Cary 326 

The  Latest  War  News Anonymous 326 

Song  of  the  Soldiers Private  Miles  O' Reilly  328 

Columbia's  Invocation Charles  A.  Barry. ..  329 

The  Northern  Volunteers George  Boweryem. . .  331 

Coming  Home Anonymous 333 

After  All William  Winter 335 


LIST   OF  AUTHORS. 


Aldrich,  Thomas  B., 92, 162 

Alger,  Horatio,  Jr., 170,  314 

Barker,  David,    222 

Barry,  Charles  A., 329 

Beach,  Elizabeth  T.  P., 181 

Benjamin,  Park, 46,  323 

Benton,  Joel, 56 

Bergh,  Henry, 304 

Boker,  George  H., 146,  167,  201,  280 

Bourne,  William  Oland, 243 

Boweryem,  George, 331 

Brooks,  C.  T., 33 

Bryant,  William  C, 1,  165 

Bcngay,  George  W., 31,40,  297 

Burleigh,  William  H., 229 

Beers,  Ethel  Lynn, 93,  123,  197 

Cary,  Alice, 189 

Cary,  Phozbe, 326 

"C.F.," 149 


xiv  LIST  OF  AUTHORS. 

Cromwell,  Ruth  N., 61,  207 

Cutler,  E.  Jefferson, 191 

Denison,  Charles  W., 188 

Denison,  M.  A., 311 

Duganne,  A.  J.  H., 85 

Durivage,  Francis  A., 28 

Eckel,  Samuel, 258 

"  E.  H.," 74 

"E.  L.  R.," 35 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo, 253 

Forney,  John  W., 71 

Gage,  Frances  D., 270 

Gallagher,  W.  1)., 159,  238 

Glyndon,  Howard, 206 

Hale,  Edward  E., 205 

Hedge,  F.  H.,  D.  D., 23 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  .116,  150,  184,  241,  245 

Hosmek,  William  H.  C, 53 

Howard,  Caroline  A., 217 

Howe,  Julia  Ward, 103,  224 

Howland,  Mrs.  R.  S., Ill 

"H.P." 133 

Janvier,  Francis  D.  H., 59 

"  J.  N.  M." 299 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS.  xv 

Kerr,  Orpheus  C,  (R.  H.  Newell,) 47 

Leland,  Charles  G., 90,  21 

Longfellow,  Henry  W., 194 

Lowell,  James  Russell, 234 

Lowell,  Robert, 183,  212 

Larcom,  Lucy, 289 

Lynx,  Ethel,   (See  Beers) 123 

Mason,  Caroline  A., 139,  141 

Men amin,  David  M., 37 

Mercer,  S.  C, 115 

Morris,  George  P., 169 

Neal,  John, 174 

Nealy,  Mary  B., 14 

Nicolay,  John  G., 26 

O'Reilly,  Private  Miles, 328 

Piatt,  John  J., 260 

Pierpont,  John, 8,  220 

Priest,  Miss  Nancy  A.  W., 105,  264 

Proctor,  Edna  Dean, 251 

Randolph,  A.  D.  F., 293 

Read,  T.  Buchanan, 52, 129 

Reid,  Mayne, 172 

Shepherd,  N.  G., 154 


xvi  LIST   OF  AUTHORS. 

• 

Shillaber,  B.  P., 295 

Sigourney,  L.  H., 203,  285 

Stedman,  E.  C, 301 

Stoddard,  R.  H., 101 

Story,  W.  W., 78 

Stowe,  Harriet  Beecher, 94 

Street,  Alfred  B., 2G8 

Taylor,  Bayard, 121 

Tilton,  Theodore, 4,  70,  126 

Townsend,  George  Alfred, 278 

Tuckerman,  C.  K., 148,  228 

Tuckerman,  H.  T., 109,  273 

Tupper,  Martin  F., 82 

Vandenhoff,  George, 249 

Wallace,  ¥m.  Ross, 136,  272 

Warner,  A.  M., 98 

Webb,  C.  H., 209 

Whittier,  John  G., 24,  239,  281 

Williams,  W.  F., 213 

Willett,  Edward, 66 

Willis,  Richard  Storrs, 215 

Willson,  Forceythe, 176,  232 

Winter,  William, 335 


LYRICS    OF    LOYALTY. 


OUR   COUNTRY'S   CALL. 


BY   WILLIAM   CULLEN  BRYANT. 

AY  down  the  axe,  fling  by  the  spade  : 
Leave  in  its  track  the  toiling  plough; 
The  rifle  and  the  bayonet-blade 
For  arms  like  yours  were  fitter  now  ; 
And  let  the  hands  that  ply  the  pen 

Quit  the  light  task,  and  learn  to  wield 
The  horseman's  crooked  brand,  and  rein 
The  charger  on  the  battle-field. 


Our  country  calls  ;  away  !  away  ! 

To  where  the  blood-stream  blots  the  green. 
Strike  to  defend  the  gentlest  sway 

That  Time  in  all  his  course  has  seen. 

1 


OUR   COUNTRTS   CALL. 

See,  from  a  thousand  coverts  —  see 

Spring  the  armed  foes  that  haunt  her  track ; 

They  rush  to  smite  her  down,  and  we 
Must  beat  the  banded  traitors  back. 

PIo  !  sturdy  as  the  oaks  ye  cleave, 

And  moved  as  soon  to  fear  and  flight, 
Men  of  the  glade  and  forest !  leave 

Your  woodcraft  for  the  field  of  fight. 
The  arms  that  wield  the  axe  must  pour 

An  iron  tempest  on  the  foe  ; 
His  serried  ranks  shall  reel  before 

The  arm  that  lays  the  panther  low. 

And  ye  who  breast  the  mountain  storm 

By  grassy  steep  or  highland  lake, 
Come,  for  the  land  ye  love,  to  form 

A  bulwark  that  no  foe  can  break. 
Stand,  like  your  own  gray  cliffs  that  mock 

The  whirlwind  ;  stand  in  her  defence  : 
The  blast  as  soon  shall  move  the  rock 

As  rushing  squadrons  bear  ye  thence. 

And  ye,  whose  homes  are  by  her  grand 

Swift  livers,  rising  far  away, 
Come  from  the  depth  of  her  green  land 

As  mighty  in  your  march  as  they ; 


OUR   COUNTRY'S    CALL. 

As  terrible  as  when  the  rains 

Have  swelled  them  over  bank  and  bourne, 
With  sudden  floods  to  drown  the  plains 

And  sweep  along  the  woods  uptorn. 

And  ye  who  throng,  beside  the  deep, 

Her  ports  and  hamlets  of  the  strand, 
In  number  like  the  waves  that  leap 

On  his  long  murmuring  marge  of  sand, 
Come,  like  that  deep,  when,  o'er  his  brim, 

He  rises,  all  his  floods  to  pour, 
And  flings  the  proudest  barks  that  swim, 

A  helpless  wreck  against  his  shore. 

Few,  few  were  they  whose  swords,  of  old, 

Won  the  fair  land  in  which  we  dwell ; 
But  we  are  many,  we  who  hold 

The  grim  resolve  to  guard  it  well. 
Strike  for  that  broad  and  goodly  land, 

Blow  alter  blow,  till  men  shall  see 
That  Might  and  Right  move  hand  in  hand, 

And  glorious  must  their  triumph  be. 


THE   GREAT  BELL  ROLAND. 


THE  GREAT  BELL  ROLAND.* 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  PRESIDENT'S  FIRST  CALL  FOR 
VOLUNTEERS. 

BY   THEODORE   TILTON. 


TOLL!  Roland,  toll! 
In  old  St.  Bavon's  tower, 
At  midnight  hour, 
The  great  Bell  Roland  spoke ! 
All  souls  that  slept  in  Ghent  awoke  ! 
What  meant  the  thunder  stroke  ? 
Why  trembled  wife  and  maid  ? 
Why  caught  each  man  his  blade  ? 
Why  echoed  every  street 
With  tramp  of  thronging  feet  ? 

All  flying  to  the  city's  wall ! 

It  was  the  warning  call 
That  Freedom  stood  in  peril  of  a  foe ! 
And  even  timid  hearts  grew  bold 
Whenever  Roland  tolled, 
And  every  hand  a  sword  could  hold ! 

So  acted  men 

*  The  famous  bell  Roland,  of  Ghent,  was  an  object  of  great 
affection  to  the  people,  because  it  rang  to  arm  them  when  Lib- 
erty was  in  danger. 


THE  GREAT  BELL  ROLAND.  5 

Like  patriots  then  — 
Three  hundred  years  ago  ! 

ii. 

Toll !  Roland,  toll ! 
Bell  never  yet  was  hung, 
Between  whose  lips  there  swung 
So  grand  a  tongue  ! 

If  men  be  patriots  still, 

At  thy  first  sound 

True  hearts  will  bound, 

Great  souls  will  thrill ! 
Then  toll  and  strike  the  test 
Through  each  man's  breast, 
Till  loyal  hearts  shall  stand  confest,  — 
And  may  God's  wrath  smite  all  the  rest ! 

in. 

Toll !  Roland,  toll ! 
Not  now  in  old  St.  Bavon's  tower  — 
Not  now  at  midnight  hour  — 
Not  now  from  River  Scheldt  to  Zuydcr  Zee, 
But  here,  —  this  side  the  sea!  — 
Toll  here,  in  broad,  bright  day !  — 
For  not  by  night  awaits 
A  noble  foe  without  the  gates, 
But  perjured  friends  within  betray, 


THE   GREAT  BELL  ROLAND. 

And  do  the  deed  at  noon  ! 

Toll !  Roland,  toll ! 
Thy  sound  is  not  too  soon ! 
To  Arms  !  Ring  out  the  Leader's  call ! 
Reecho  it  from  East  to  West 
Till  every  hero's  breast 
Shall  swell  beneath  a  soldier's  crest! 

Toll !  Roland,  toll ! 
Till  cottager  from  cottage  wall 
Snatch  pouch  and  powder-horn  and  gun  ! 
The  sire  bequeathed  them  to  the  son 
When  only  half  their  work  was  done  ! 

Toll !  Roland,  toll ! 
Till  swords  from  scabbards  leap  ! 

Toll !  Roland,  toll ! 
What  tears  can  widows  weep 
Less  bitter  than  when  brave  men  fall ! 

Toll  !  Roland,  toll ! 
In  shadowed  hut  and  hall 
Shall  lie  the  soldier's  pall,  [filled  ! 

And  hearts  shall   break   while   graves    are 
Amen  !     So  God  hath  willed  ! 
And  may  His  grace  anoint  us  all ! 

IV. 

Toll !  Roland,  toll ! 
The  Dragon  on  thy  town- 
Stands  sentry  to  this  hour, 


THE  GREAT  BELL  ROLAND.  7 

And  Freedom  so  stands  safe  in  Ghent ! 
And  merrier  bells  now  ring, 
And  in  the  land's  serene  content 
Men  shout  "  God  save  the  King ! " 

Until  the  skies  are  rent ! 
So  let  it  be  ! 
A  kingly  king  is  he 
Who  keeps  his  people  free  ! 

Toll !  Roland,  toll ! 
Ring  out  across  the  sea  ! 
No  longer  They  but  We 
Have  now  such  need  of  thee ! 

Toll !  Roland,  toll ! 
Nor  ever  may  thy  throat 
Keep  dumb  its  warning  note 
Till  Freedom's  perils  be  outbraved  ! 

Toll  !  Roland,  toll ! 
Till  Freedom's  flag,  wherever  waved, 
Shall  shadow  not  a  man  enslaved  ! 

Toll !  Roland,  toll ! 
From  Northern  lake  to  Southern  strand ! 

Toll !  Roland,  toll ! 
Till  friend  and  foe,  at  thy  command, 
Once  more  shall  clasp  each  other's  hand, 
And  shout,  one-voiced,  "  God  save  the  land! 
And  love  the  land  that  God  hath  saved ! 

Toll !  Roland,  toll ! 

April  16,  1861. 


FORWARD! 
FORWARD! 

BY   REV.    JOHN  PIERPONT. 


G' 


OD,  to  the  human  soul, 
And  all  the  spheres  that  roll, 
Wrapped  by  his  Spirit  in  their  robes  of  light, 
Hath  said  :  "  The  primal  plan 
Of  all  the  world,  and  man, 
Is  Forward  !     Progress  is  your  law  —  your  right." 

The  despots  of  the  earth, 
Since  Freedom  had  her  birth, 

Have  to  their  subject  nations  said,  "  Stand  still;" 
So,  from  the  Polar  Bear, 
Comes  down  the  freezing  air, 

And  stiffens  all  things  with  its  deadly  chill. 

He  who  doth  God  resist  — 

God's  old  antagonist  — 
Would  snap  the  chain  that  binds  all  things  to  him  ; 

And  in  his  godless  pride, 

All  peoples  would  divide, 
And  scatter  even  the  choirs  of  seraphim. 

God,  all  the  orbs  that  roll 
Binds  to  one  common  goal  — 


FORWARD!  9 

One  source  of  light  and  life  —  his  radiant  throne. 

In  one  fraternal  mind 

All  races  would  he  bind, 
Till  every  man  in  man  a  brother  own. 

Tyrants  with  tyrants  league, 

Corruption  and  intrigue 
To  strangle  infant  Liberty  conspire. 

Around  her  cradle,  then, 

Let  self-devoted  men 
Gather,  and  keep  unquenched  her  vital  fire. 

When  Tyranny,  grown  bold, 
To  Freedom's  host  cries,  "  Hold  ! 

Ye  towards  her  temple  at  your  peril  march  ; " 

"  Stop,"  that  great  host  replies, 

Raising  to  heaven  its  eyes, 

11  Stop,  first,  the  host  that  moves  across  yon  arch ! " 

When  Tyranny  commands, 
"  Hold  thou  my  victim's  hands, 
While  I  more  firmly  rivet  on  his  chains, 

Or  with  my  bowie-knife, 

I  '11  take  your  craven  life, 
Or  show  my  streets  bespattered  with  your  brains." 

Freedom,  with  forward  tread, 
Unblenching,  turns  her  head, 


10  THE  PARTING. 

And  drawing  from  its  sheath  her  flashing  glave, 
Calmly  makes  answer  :  M  Dare 
Touch  of  my  head  one  hair, 

I'll  cut  the  cord  that  holds  your  every  slave  !" 


THE  PARTING. 

T    AM   sitting,    idly    sitting,    where   the    twilight 

shades  are  flitting, 
And  the  memory  of  the  past  is  drawing  round  me 

like  a  spell ; 
Breathes  the  last  tones  of  the  nearest,  the  fondest 

and  the  dearest, 
Still  within  my  ear  in  a  tremulous  farewell. 

It  is  hard  to  think  us  parted  —  trusted,  trusting, 

steel-true  hearted  — 
And    that   many  lengths  may  crumble   from   the 

lengthening  chain  of  time, 
Ere  my  lips  may  feel  thy  pressing,  or  my  hair  the 

li<jht  caressing 
That  have  thrilled  my  heart  with  rapture,  and  a 

love  almost  sublime. 


THE  PARTING.  11 

Ah,  our  lives  have  twined  together  like  the  vines  in 

sunny  wreaths, 
And  we  never  thought  to  part  till  death  should 

break  the  chain 
With  which  golden  love  had  bound  us,  waving  like 

a  halo  round  us 
Every  thought   and   every  feeling,  grasping  joys, 

ignoring  pain. 

Yet,  thou  'rt  gone  !  —  thy  country  calls  thee  !  Fac- 
tion's stormy  cloud  enthralls  thee, 

And  I  never  more  may  look  into  the  blue  depths 
of  thine  eyes,  — 

Never  hear  thy  loud  voice  stealing,  with  its  rich, 
deep  freight  of  feeling, 

On  my  ear  in  gentle  murmurs  as  the  evening  glory 
dies. 

Life  seems  'reft  of  every  beauty ;  I  have  scarce  a 

heart  for  duty, 
As  I  sit  here  thinking,  thinking  of  thee,  darling, 

far  away. 
Tears  are  falling  fast  and  faster  —  Heaven  grant 

no  dire  disaster 
May  make  the  gloom  eternal  that  is  on  my  heart 
to-day  ! 


12  THE  PART  IN  Q 

Yet,  in  all  my  pain  and  sorrow,  could  I  call  thee 

back  to-raorrrow, 
Dear,  my  lips  should  never  breathe  the  words  to 

hasten  thy  return  : 
Though  I  sit  so  sadly  sobbing,  with   a   heart  so 

wildly  throbbing, 
I  could  never  quench  the  sparks  that  on  thy  bosom's 

altar  burn. 

No  !  our  hearts  may  wander  darkling  —  still  I  see 

the  diamond  sparkling 
Of  the  star  that  yet  shall  dawn  to  bid  us  hope  for 

peace  once  more  ; 
And  my  soul  leaps  e'en  in  sadness,  like  an  infant 

in  its  gladness, 
To  think  how  proud  I  '11  greet  thee  when  the  bloody 

strife  is  o'er. 

I  '11  not  think  of  death  and  slaughter,  tinged  with 
blood  the  crystal  water 

Of  the  purling  streams  that  murmur  through  the 
forests  of  our  land, 

But  of  banners  proudly  streaming  where  the  camp- 
fires  now  are  gleaming, 

Hear  the  rallying  shout  of  millions  peal  from  Free- 
dom's fearless  band ! 


THE  PARTING.  13 

See  I  thee  —  bold,  brave,  and  daring  —  on  thy 
manly  forehead  wearing 

The  shadow  of  a  purpose  strong  as  every  pulse  of 
life, 

Sec  thee  strike  the  foe  before  thee,  while  the  roll- 
ing clouds  sweep  o'er  thee  — 

Oh  !  'mid  clashing  swords  and  sabres,  in  the  hottest 
of  the  strife. 

I  would  never  have  thee  falter !  —  better  death  or 

felon's  halter 
Than  to  see  our  cause  defeated  and  a  nation  bowed 

in  shame. 
Were  I  man,  grim  death  should  claim  me  ere  a 

coward's  thought  should  shame  me, 
Or  the  stigma  of  inaction  rise  upon  my  manhood's 

fame ! 

Leave  —  God  have  thee  in  His  keeping  ever,  wak- 
ing or  in  sleeping ; 

Every  hour  I  breathe  a  prayer  for  our  country's 
cause  and  thee ; 

And  I  feel  this  love  will  fold  thee,  till  mine  eyes 
ajjain  behold  thee 

In  the  flush  of  manly  beauty  and  the  pride  of  vic- 
tory ! 

B.  Z.  S. 


14  THE  SOLDIERS  "  GOOD-BY." 

THE  SOLDIER'S  "GOOD-BY." 

BY    MARY    E.    NEALY. 

f^\  OOD-BY,  my  wife,  my  child,  my  friend, 

'T  is  hard  to  leave  you  all ; 
But  there  's  a  God  in  heaven  above 
Will  bless  and  shield  you  with  His  love, 

If  I  am  doomed  to  fall. 

You  know  I  could  not  stay,  dear  love, 

When  over  all  the  land 
The  shot  of  Sumter  circled  round, 
And  lifted,  at  a  single  bound, 

This  mighty  patriot-band. 

A  thrill  that  never  else  had  swept 

Across  this  soul  of  mine, 
Stirred  up  each  tingling  drop  of  blood, 
Ready  to  pour  a  votive  flood 

Upon  my  country's  shrine. 


O  dearest !  there  '6  a  manhood  lies, 

Deep  in  these  slender  forms, 
We  know  not  of,   till  in  our  skies 
Such  clouds  of  dancer  o'er  us  rise 
To  fill  our  land  with  storms. 


THE  SOLDIERS  "  GOOD-BY."  15 

Then,  like  a  mountain  stream  it  comes, 
A  stream  of  power  and  might ; 

It  echoes  to  the  beat  of  drums, 

It  quails  not  when  the  fiery  bombs 
Break  fiercely  on  the  sight. 

This  war  is  sad ;  but  I  thank  God 

For  this  one  blessed  taste 
Of  manhood,  strong  within  my  blood  ;  — 
Of  strength  unknown,  a  mighty  flood 

Which  else  had  gone  to  waste. 

My  arms  seem  braced  with  nerves  of  steel, 

My  soul  is  firm  and  strong; 
And,  dearest,  even  now  I  feel 
The  power  to  crush  beneath  my  heel 

My  share  of  this  foul  wrong. 

The  man  who  springs  not  to  his  sword 

In  such  a  time  as  this, 
To  see  his  country's  fame  restored, 
Is  weak  as  he  who  slew  his  Lord 

With  a  deceitful  kiss. 

Then  ask  me  not.     I  cannot  stay, 

My  own,  my  blessed  wife  ; 
The  God  that  looks  on  us  to-day 


16  THE  SOLDIERS  "  GOOD-BY." 

Will  listen  to  you  when  you  pray, 
And  shield  your  soldier's  life. 

Yet  if  I  come  not  back  again, 

But  fall  beside  my  foe, 
This  blood  will  not  be  spilled  in  vain 
Though  it  should  fall  like  crimson  rain 

Where  crimson  waters  flow. 

I'm  strong  enough  to  die,  dear  love, 

In  such  a  cause  as  ours  ; 
For  I  shall  see  from  Heaven  above 
Freedom's  fair  bow  above  you  wave, 

Entwined  with  Freedom's  flowers. 

Now  kiss  me  one  "  good-by,"  my  wife, 

Your  task  is  worse  than  mine  ; 
For  while  I  revel  in  the  strife, 
You  can  but  pray  for  this  poor  life, 
With  heroism  divine. 

'Tis  weary  —  all  the  dark  suspense 

A  woman  has  to  bear  : 
The  anguished  thoughts,  the  woe  intense, 
While  booming  cannon  bear  her  hence 

A  fear  for  every  prayer. 


THE    WOODS    OF    TENNESSEE.       .     17 

But  you  —  you  must  be  strong  and  bright ; 

You  are  a  soldier's  wife  : 
I'll  think  of  you  by  day  and  night, 
Your  love  shall  nerve  me  in  the  fight ; 
Good-by,  my  love,  my  life  ! 
Louisville,  Ky. 


THE  WOODS   OF  TENNESSEE. 

ANONYMOUS. 

npHE  whip-poor-will  is  calling 

From  its  perch  on  the  splintered  limb, 
And  the  plaintive  notes  are  echoing 

Through  the  aisles  of  the  forest  dim : 
The  slanting  threads  of  starlight 

Are  silvering  shrub  and  tree, 
And  the  spot  where  the  loved  are  sleeping, 

In  the  woods  of  Tennessee. 

The  leaves  are  gently  rustling, 

But  thev're  stained  with  a  tinge  of  red  — 
For  they  proved  to  many  a  soldier 

Their  last  and  lonely  bed. 
As  they  prayed  in  mortal  agony 

To  God  to  set  them  free, 

2 


18  A    CALL    TO    TEE  BRAVE. 

Death  touched  them  with  his  finger, 
In  the  woods  of  Tennessee. 

In  the  list  of  the  killed  and  wounded, 

Ah,  me  !  alas !  we  saw 
The  name  of  our  noble  brother, 

"Who  went  to  the  Southern  war. 
He  fell  in  the  tide  of  battle 

On  the  banks  of  the  old  "  Hatchie," 
And  rests  'neath  the  wild  grape  arbors 

In  the  woods  of  Tennessee. 

There 's  many  still  forms  lying 

In  their  forgotten  graves, 
On  the  green  slope  of  the  hill-sides 

Along  Potomac's  waves ; 
But  the  memory  will  be  ever  sweet 

Of  him  so  dear  to  me, 
On  his  country's  altar  offered, 

In  the  woods  of  Tennessee. 


U 


A   CALL  TO   THE  BRAVE. 

P,  up  ye  sons  of  freedom  !  born 
Beneath  our  nation's  God-blest  sky, 


A    CALL    TO    THE  BRAVE.  19 

God  and  our  country  call  you  forth 

To  fight,  to  conquer,  or  to  die. 
Shall  our  fair  land,  by  heaven  so  blest, 

Become  a  tyrant  monarch's  throne  ? 
Shall  thy  God's  altars  desecrate  — 

Around  whose  shrines  our  hearts  have  grown  ? 

Shall  they,  beneath  a  grinding  heel, 

Tread  down  our  brave  and  noble  men  ? 
Shall  they,  with  despot's  iron  rule, 

Make  of  our  land  a  demon's  den  ? 
Shall  prayers  and  tears  and  sighs  and  groans 

Move  Heaven's  great  listening  heart  to  tears, 
While  ye  sit  still  with  folded  hands 

Nursing  a  coward's  craven  fears  ? 

Shall  our  forefathers  from  their  graves 

Rise  up  to  see  the  traitor  tread 
Over  their  blood-bought  resting-place  ?  — 

Over  their  blood-stained  coffin-bed  ? 
Shall  they  rise  up  to  taunt  ye  now 

In  this  our  nation's  peril  hour  ? 
Shall  God  look  down  and  see  his  courts 

Degraded  by  a  tyrant's  power  ? 

Ah,  no !  thank  God,  you  see  your  place  ! 
You  do  your  duty  for  the  right ! 


20  THE    VOLUNTEERS    WIFE 

Brave  hearts,  ye  have  our  truest  prayers 
That  God  may  help  you  in  His  might. 

You  have  our  prayers,  you  have  our  tears, 
You  have  our  truest  sympathy  :  — 

God  shield  and  guard  and  bless  you  all, 
In  this  your  fight  for  liberty. 

Though  life  may  falter  when  we  part 

With  brother,  father,  husband,  friend, 
That  God  above  who  reads  each  heart 

Shall  find  us  with  you  to  the  end ; 
Be  brave,  and  in  the  battle's  din, 

Amid  the  smoke  of  muskets  bright, 
Keep  in  each  heart  this  cheering  thought,  - 

We  pray  for  you  both  day  and  night. 
Louisville,  Ky. 


THE  VOLUNTEER'S  WIFE  TO  HER  HUSBAND 

pvON'T  stop  a  moment  to  think,  John, 

Your  country  calls  —  then  go  ; 
Don't  think  of  me  or  the  children,  John, 

I  Ml  care  for  them,  you  know. 
Leave  the  corn  upon  the  stalks,  John, 

Potatoes  on  the  hill, 


TO  HER  HUSBAND.  21 

And  the  pumpkins  on  the  vines,  John  — 

I  '11  gather  them  with  a  will. 
But  take  your  gun  and  go,  John, 

Take  your  gun  and  go, 
For  Ruth  can  drive  the  oxen,  John, 

And  I  can  use  the  hoe. 

I  've  heard  my  grandsire  tell,  John, 

(He  fought  at  Bunker  Hill,) 
How  he  counted  all  his  life  and  wealth 

His  country's  offering  still. 
Shall  we  shame  the  brave  old  blood,  John, 

That  flowed  on  Monmouth  Plain  ? 
No  !  take  your  gun  and  go,  John, 

If  you  ne  'er  return  again. 
Then  take  your  gun  and  go,  etc. 

Our  army's  short  of  blankets,  John, 

Then  take  this  heavy  pair ; 
I  spun  and  wove  them  when  a  girl, 

And  worked  them  with  great  care. 
There  's  a  rose  in  every  corner,  John, 

And  there  's  my  name,  you  see  ; 
On  the  cold  ground  they  '11  warmer  feel 

That  they  were  made  by  me. 
Then  take  your  gun  and  go,  etc. 


22  THE    VOLUNTEERS    WIFE,  ETC. 

And  if  it  be  God's  will,  John, 

You  ne'er  come  back  again, 
I'll  do  my  best  for  the  children,  John, 

In  sorrow,  want,  and  pain. 
In  winter  nights  I'll  teach  them  all 

That  I  have  learned  at  school, 
To  love  the  country,  keep  the  laws, 

Obey  the  Saviour's  rule. 
Then  take  your  gun  and  go,  etc. 

And  in  the  village  church,  John, 

And  at  our  humble  board, 
We  '11  pray  that  God  will  keep  you,  John, 

And  heavenly  aid  afford  ; 
And  all  who  love  their  country's  cause 

Will  love  and  bless  you  too, 
And  nights  and  mornings  they  will  pray 

For  Freedom  and  for  you. 
Then  take  your  gun  and  go,  etc. 

And  now  good-by  to  you,  John  — 

I  cannot  say  farewell ; 
We  '11  hope  and  pray  for  the  best,  John  ; 

God's  goodness  none  can  tell. 
Be  His  great  arm  around  you,  John, 

To  guard  you  night  and  day  ; 


OUR    COUNTRY  IS    CALLING,  23 

Be  our  beloved  country's  shield, 
Till  the  war  has  passed  away. 
Then  take  your  gun  and  go,  etc. 


OUR   COUNTRY  IS   CALLING. 


[  Wohl  aufl    Cameraden  !   aufs  Pferd,  aufs  Pferd  !  ] 

^VUR  country  is  calling !     Go  forth  !  go  forth  ! 

To  danger  and  glory,  ye  gallants  ! 
In  danger  your  manhood  must  prove  its  worth, 

There  hearts  are  weighed  in  the  balance  ; 
And  he  who  would  win  his  life  at  last 
Must  throw  it  all  on  the  battle's  cast. 

Our  country  is  calling,  our  country  that  bleeds 
With  daggers  which  Treason  has  planted ; 

'T  is  Honor  that  beckons  where  Loyalty  leads, 
We  follow  with  spirits  undaunted. 

The  soldier  who  fronts  death  face  to  face 

Is  foremost  now  of  the  patriot  race. 

Our  countrv  is  calling  !  we  come  !  we  come  I 
For  Freedom  and  Union  we  rally ; 


24  THE    VOICE   OF   THE  NORTH. 

Our  heart-beat  echoes  the  beating  drum, 

Our  thoughts  with  the  trumpet  tally ; 
Each  bosom  pauts  for  the  doomful  day 
When  the  rebels  shall  meet  us  in  battle  array. 

Our  country  is  calling  with  names  that  of  old 

Emblazoned  America's  story  ; 
May  those  of  to-day,  when  its  tale  shall  be  told, 

Blaze  with  them  forever  in  glory ! 
Be  our  banner  redeemed  the  reward  of  our  scars, 
No  scathe  on  its  stripes  and  no  cloud  on  its  stars ! 


THE  VOICE   OF   THE  NORTH. 

BY   JOHN   G.    WIIITTIER. 

TP  the  hill-side,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen  : 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men  ! 

Like  a  lion  growling  low  — 
Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow  — 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe  — 

It  is  coming —  it  is  nigh  ! 
Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by, 
On  your  own  free  threshold  die. 


THE   VOICE    OF    THE  NORTH.  05 

Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires, 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal-fires. 

Oh  !  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Round  the  old  graves  of  the  land. 

Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow. 

Freedom's  soil  has  only  place 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race  — 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party  —  perish  clan ; 
Strike  together  while  you  can, 
Like  the  strong  arm  of  one  man. 


e 


Like  the  angels'  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime, 
Crying  for  the  end  of  Time. 

With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth, 
Let  the  North  speak  to  the  South  ; 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both. 


26  ON  GUARD. 


I 


ON   GUARD. 

BY   JOHN   G.    NICOLAY. 

N  the  black  terror-night, 


On  yon  mist-shrouded  hill, 
Slowly,  with  footstep  light, 

Stealthy  and  grim  and  still, 
Like  ghost  in  winding  sheet 

Risen  at  midnight  bell, 
Over  his  lonely  beat 

Marches  the  sentinel ! 

In  storm-defying  cloak  — 

Hand  on  his  trusty  gun  — 
Heart,  like  a  heart  of  oak  — 

Eye,  never-setting  sun  ; 
Speaks  but  the  challenge-shout, 

All  foes  without  the  line, 
Heeds  but,  to  solve  the  doubt, 

Watchword  and  countersign. 

Camp-ward,  the  watchfires  gleam 
Beacon-like  in  the  gloom  ; 

Round  them  his  comrades  dream 
Pictures  of  youth  and  home. 

While  in  his  heart  the  bright 
Hope-fires  shine  everywhere, 


ON  GUARD.  27 

In  love's  enchanting  light 
Memory  lies  dreaming  there. 

Faint,  through  the  silence  come 

From  the  foes'  grim  array, 
Growl  of  impatient  drum 

Eager  for  morrow's  fray ; 
Echo  of  song  and  shout, 

Curse  and  carousal  glee, 
As  in  a  fiendish  rout 

Demons  at  revelry. 

Close,  in  the  gloomy  shade  — 

Danger  lurks  ever  ni^h  — 
Grasping  his  dagger-blade 

Crouches  th'  assassin  spy  ; 
Shrinks  at  the  guardsman's  tread, 

Quails  'fore  his  gleaming  eyes, 
Creeps  back  with  baffled  hate, 

Cursing  his  cowardice. 

Naught  can  beguile  his  bold, 

Unsleeping  vigilance  ; 
E'en  in  the  fireflame,  old 

Visions  unheeded  dance. 
Fearless  of  lurking  spy, 

Scornful  of  wassail-swell, 


28  THE   CAVALRY   CHARGE. 

With  an  undaunted  eye 
Marches  the  sentinel. 

Low,  to  his  trusty  gun 
Eagerly  whispers  he, 

"  Wait,  with  the  morning  sun 

7  © 

March  we  to  victory. 
Fools,  into  Satan's  clutch 

Leaping  ere  dawn  of  day  : 
He  who  would  fight  must  watch, 

He  who  would  win  must  pray." 

Prav  !  for  the  night  hath  wings : 
.  ©  ©   » 

Watch  !  for  the  foe  is  near  ; 

March  !  till  the  morning  brings 

©  © 

Fame-wreath  or  soldier's  bier. 

So  shall  the  poet  write, 

When  all  hath  ended  well, 

"  Thus  through  the  nation's  night 
©  © 

Marched  Freedom's  sentinel." 


THE    CAVALRY    CHARGE 

BY   FRANCIS  A.   DURIVAGE. 

XXTITII  bray  of  the  trumpet 
And  roll  of  the  drum, 


THE   CAVALRY   CHARGE,  29 

And  keen  ring  of  bugle, 

The  cavalry  come. 
Sharp  clank  the  steel  scabbards, 

The  bridle-chains  ring, 
And  foam  from  red  nostrils 

The  wild  chargers  fling. 

Tramp  !  tramp !  o'er  the  greensward 

That  quivers  below, 
Scarce  held  by  the  curb-bit 

The  fierce  horses  go  ! 
And  the  grim-visaged  colonel, 

With  ear-rending  shout, 
Peals  forth  to  the  squadrons 

The  order  —  "  Trot  out !  " 

One  hand  on  the  sabre, 

And  one  on  the  rein, 
The  troopers  move  forward 

In  line  on  the  plain. 
As  rings  the  word  "  Gallop ! " 

The  steel  scabbards  clank, 
And  each  rowel  is  pressed 

To  a  horse's  hot  flank  : 
And  swift  is  their  rush 

As  the  wild  torrent's  flow, 
When  it  pours  from  the  crag 

On  the  valley  below. 


30  THE   CAVALRY   CHARGE. 

"  Charge  ! "  thunders  the  leader : 

Like  shaft  from  the  bow 
Each  mad  horse  is  hurled 

On  the  wavering  foe. 
A  thousand  bright  sabres 

Are  gleaming  in  air  ; 
A  thousand  dark  horses 

Are  dashed  on  the  square. 

Resistless  and  reckless 

Of  aught  may  betide, 
Like  demons,  not  mortals, 

The  wild  troopers  ride. 
Cut  right !  and  cut  left !  — 

For  the  parry  who  needs  ? 
The  bayonets  shiver 

Like  wind-shattered  reeds. 
Vain  —  vain  the  red  volley 

That  bursts  from  the  square, 
The  random-shot  bullets 

Are  wasted  in  air. 
Triumphant,  remorseless, 

Unerring  as  death,  — 
No  sabre  that  's  stainless 

Returns  to  its  sheath. 

The  wounds  that  are  dealt 
By  that  murderous  steel 


SNOW  SCULPTURE.  31 

Will  never  yield  case 

For  the  surgeon  to  heal. 
Hurrah  !  they  are  broken  — 

Hurrah  !  boys,  they  fly  — 
None  linger  save  those 

Who  but  linger  to  die. 

Rein  up  your  hot  horses 

And  call  in  your  men,  — 
The  trumpet  sounds  "  Rally 

To  color  "  again. 
Some  saddles  are  empty, 

Some  comrades  are  slain, 
And  some  noble  horses 

Lie  stark  on  the  plain, 
But  war 's  a  chance  game,  boys, 

And  weeping  is  vain. 


SNOW   SCULPTURE. 

BY   GEORGE  W.    BUNGAY. 

f\N  hills  and  forests  bare  and  brown, 
I  see  the  silent  snow  come  down, 
So  soft  and  white, 


32  SNOW  SCULPTURE. 

Like  showers  of  blossoms  winds  have  blown 
From  flowers  of  light. 

Faster  and  faster  fall  the  flakes, 
On  the  dim  woods  and  silver  lakes, 

From  stormy  skies, 
Like  soft  words  on  a  heart  that  breaks 

When  pity  sighs. 

Ye  wailing  winds  that  sadly  sigh, 
Above  the  graves  where  heroes  lie, 

In  sorrow  blow, 
And  build  white  columns,  broad  and  high, 

Of  stainless  snow. 

Let  pyramids  of  spotless  hue 
Point  to  the  bending  arch  of  blue 

Without  a  stain, 
And  mark  the  place  where  sleep  the  true, 

In  battle  slain. 

Ye  unseen  sculptors  in  the  air, 
Go  carve  designs  in  beauty  there, 

And  grave  the  name 
Of  Baker,  deep  in  letters  fair 

As  wreaths  of  fame. 


SOLDIERS  MORNING   SONG.  33 

Go  where  the  bending  willow  weeps 
Over  the  tomb  where  Ellsworth  sleeps, 

And  softly  write 
The  epitaph  that  history  keeps 

In  letters  white. 

Quarry  from  clouds  a  shaft  to  tower 
Above  the  spot  where  sleeps  the  flower 

Of  armies  true, 
'Till  blossoms  rise  in  sun  and  shower, 

Red,  white,  and  blue. 


SOLDIER'S  MORNING  SONG. 
Erhebt  euch  von  der  Erde. 

"TTE  sleepers,  hear  the  warning, 
Lift  up  your  drowsy  heads ! 
Loud  snort  the  steeds  "  Good-morning  ! 

Forsake  your  grassy  beds. 
The  sun-lit  steel  is  gleaming, 

Undimmed  by  battle's  breath  ; 
Of  garlands  men  are  dreaming, 
And  thinking,  too,  of  death. 
3 


34  SOLDIER'S  MORNING   SONG. 

Thou  gracious  God  !  in  kindness 

Look  down  from  thy  blue  tent: 
We  rushed  not  forth  in  blindness, 

By  Thee  to  battle  sent. 
O  lift  on  high  before  us 

Thy  truth's  all-conquering  sign  : 
The  flag  of  Christ  floats  o'er  us, 

The  fight,  O  Lord,  is  thine ! 

There  yet  shall  come  a  morning,  — 

A  morning  mild  and  bright ; 
All  good  men  bless  its  dawning, 

And  angels  hail  the  sight. 
Soon  from  her  night  of  sadness 

This  suffering  land  shall  wake  : 
O  break,  thou  day  of  gladness ! 

Thou  day  of  Freedom  break  ! 

Then  peals  from  all  the  towers  ! 

And  peals  from  every  breast ! 
And  peace  from  stormy  hours, 

And  love  and  joy  and  rest ! 
Then  songs  of  triumph  loudly 

Shall  swell  through  all  the  air, 
And  we  '11  remember  proudly, 

We,  too,  brave  blades  !  were  there. 

C.  T.  Bkooks. 


AFTER    THE  BATTLE.  35 

AFTER   THE  BATTLE. 

BY   E.    L.   R. 

npHE  cannon's  thunders  ceased  to  swell  — 

The  whistling  shot  and  shrieking  shell 
No  more  with  vengeful  fury  sped 
Amid  the  mangled  and  the  dead. 

A  sullen  silence  broods  around  — 
For  on  that  dark  and  bloody  ground 
The  gallant  champions  of  the  Free, 
Fought,  bled,  and  died  for  Liberty ! 

Perchance  a  brother's  fate  was  sealed, 
Upon  that  solemn  battle-field ; 
And,  e'en  while  in  the  arms  of  Death, 
A  prayer  for  home  —  his  latest  breath  ! 

Where  raged  the  fury  of  the  fray 
Two  warriors,  — side  by  side  they  lay,  — 
All  rent  with  many  a  ghastly  wound, 
Their  life-blood  bathed  the  crimson  ground. 

Fierce  foes  in  life  —  the  cannon's  roar 
Will  rouse  their  bitter  ire  no  more ; 
They  perished  in  a  dread  embrace, 
With  eye  to  eye,  and  face  to  face. 


AFTER    THE  BATTLE. 

The  war-steed  wanders  o'er  the  plain, 
Seeking  amid  the  heaps  of  slain 
The  form  of  him,  whose  hand  would  guide 
His  courser  through  the  battle-tide. 

The  chieftain's  sword,  grasped  in  his  hand, 
Still  seemed  to  beckon  on  his  band  ; 
He  fell  —  while  rose  the  joyous  cry, 
The  mighty  shout  of  victory. 

Close  by  yon  straggling  mass  of  wall, 
A  youth  was  seen  to  reel  and  fall, 
Where  fiercest  lead  and  iron  rained  — 
His  purple  gore  his  colors  stained. 

With  dying  shout  he  partly  rose, 
And  waved  the  banner  at  his  foes; 
Then  strained  it  to  his  bloody  breast, 
Smiled  a  glad  smile  and  sunk  to  rest. 

O,  piteous  sight !     Yet  Freedom  gave 
A  Hero's  shroud,  a  Martyr's  grave 
To  the  loved  ones,  whose  blood  shall  rise 
To  Heaven,  a  holy  sacrifice. 

Their  noble  deeds  of  valor  done, 
A  Patriot's  name,  immortal,  won  ! 


A  MOTHER    WAITING  FOR    THE  NEWS.      37 

And  on  our  hearts  will  e'er  remain 
The  memory  of  the  gallant  slain. 

A  nation's  tears  will  greet  the  dead, 
Whose  blood  for  Freedom's  cause  was  shed ; 
Her  blessings  greet  the  brave,  who  passed 
Safe  from  the  fury  of  the  blast. 


A  MOTHER  WAITING  FOR  THE   NEWS. 

BY   DAVID   M.    MENAMIN. 

TTOW  wearily  the  hours  pass 

Since,  through  the  ambient  air, 
The  lightnings  Hashed  the  startling  fact, 

A  battle  has  been  there,  — 
There,  where  my  noble,  honest  boy 

The  path  of  fame  pursues ; 
But,  ah  !  my  aching  heart  will  burst, 

While  waiting  for  the  news. 

Wounded  upon  that  gory  field, 

Forsaken  he  may  die ; 
Nor  mother  there  to  wet  his  lips, 

Nor  raise  his  hopes  on  high ; 


38     A  MOTHER    WATTING  FOR    THE  NEWS 

Disfigured,  stained,  his  features  marred 

By  many  a  scar  and  bruise  ; 
Ah  !  who  can  tell  what  mothers  feel 

While  waiting  for  the  news. 

Ye  wise  men  who  have  made  this  war 

To  make  all  mankind  free, 
Oh  !  know  you  not  this  boy  of  mine 

AVas  all  the  world  to  me  ? 
If  he  is  gone,  what  have  I  left  — 

What  comfort  can  I  choose  ? 
A  mother's  heart  condemns  your  deeds, 

While  waiting  for  the  news  ! 

If  I  am  wrong,  O  God  !  forgive 

This  throbbing  heart  and  brain, 
But  who  can  justify  their  aims 

If  my  poor  boy  is  slain  V 
Yet  they,  whose  sons  are  safe  at  home, 

May  take  far  different  views, 
And  cry  aloud,  "  More  blood  !  more  blood  !  " 

O  God  !  send  me  good  news. 


HE  SLEEPS    WHERE  HE  FELL.  39 

HE  SLEEPS  WHERE  HE  FELL. 

ANONYMOUS. 

TTE  sleeps  where  he  fell  'mid  the  battle's  roar, 

With  his  comrades  true  and  brave  ; 
And  his  noble  form  we  shall  see  no  more,  — 

It  rests  in  a  hero's  grave  : 
Where  the  rebel  foe  in  his  might  came  forth, 

With  all  his  power  and  pride ; 
And  our  gallant  men  from  the  rugged  North 

Like  patriots  fought  and  died. 

He  sleeps  near  the  hill  where  bright  flowers  grow, 

In  the  wildest  woodland  shade  ; 
Where  the  valley  stream,  in  the  dell  below, 

With  an  echo  fills  the  glade  ; 
Where  the  boasting  lines  of  the  traitor-South 

Filed  up,  o'er  the  grassy  banks, 
Till  the  bursting  shells  from  our  cannon's  mouth 

Flung  death  in  their  broken  ranks. 

He  sleeps  'neath  the  sod  where  I  prayerfully  knelt, 

While  the  enemy  round  me  stood, 
As  I  took  from  the  corse  his  battle-belt, 

Still  wet  with  his  heart's  warm  blood ; 
And  the  summer  day  closed  its  light  on  earth, 

And  my  soul  grew  sad  with  pain, 


40       THE  RED  STAIN    ON   TIIE  LEAVES. 

As  they  bore  me  away  with  oaths  and  mirth, 
O'er  piles  of  the  bleeding  slain. 

He  sleeps  where  the  blest  of  our  glorious  dead 

Were  left  on  the  sacred  land ; 
Where  the  daring  deeds,  ere  his  spirit  fled, 

He  led  with  a  bold  command  ! 
He  sleeps  —  yes,  he  sleeps,  undisturbed  by  war, 

Though  tyrants  tramp  o'er  his  breast ; 
For,  with  those  who  slumber  in  glory  afar, 

He  takes  an  immortal  rest. 
Fort  Delaware. 


THE  RED  STAIN  ON  THE  LEAVES. 

BY    G.    W.    BUNGAY. 

rpHE  wood-bird's  nest  upon  the  bough 

Deserted  hangs,  and  heaped  with  leaves; 
Once  filled  with  life  and  joy,  but  now 

Sad  as  a  stricken  heart  that  grieves. 
Amid  the  light  of  such  a  scene, 

Where  silent  vales  and  hills  are  clad 
In  gayest  hues  of  gold  and  green, 

Why  should  the  human  heart  be  sad  ? 


THE  SOLDIERS  MOTHER.  41 

Yet  sombre  thoughts  flit  through  the  mind, 

And  pass  unspoken  and  unsung, 
As  leaves,  touched  by  the  autumn  wind, 

Fall  from  the  twigs  to  which  they  clung. 
Here,  like  the  patriarch  in  his  dream, 

We  see  the  ladder  angels  trod  ; 
The  mountains  to  our  vision  seem 

A  footstool  at  the  throne  of  God. 

The  veils  of  golden  mist  that  rise 

Over  the  woodlands  to  the  sea, 
Drop  where  the  gallant  soldier  lies, 

Whose  furlough  is  eternity. 
Upon  the  leaves  now  sear  and  red, 

That  once  were  flakes  of  fire  to  me, 
I  see  the  blood  our  armies  shed, 

That  our  dear  country  may  be  free. 


THE   SOLDIER'S   MOTHER. 

ANONYMOUS. 

T  is   night ;    almost    morning  —  the   clock  ha* 
struck  three ; 


42  THE  SOLDIERS  MOTHER. 

Who  can  tell  where,  this  moment,  my  darling  may 

be! 
On  the   window  has  gathered  the   moisture   like 

dew ; 
I  can  see  where  the  moonbeams  steal  tremblingly 

through  ; 
It  is  cold,  but  not  windy,  —  how  dreary  and  damp 
It  must  be  for  our  soldiers  exposed  in  the  camp  ! 
Though  I  know  it  is  warmer  and  balmier  there, 
Yet  I  shrink  from  the  thought  of  the  chilling  night- 
air ; 
For  he  never  was  used  to  the  hardships  of  men 
When  at  home,  for  I  shielded  and  cherished  him 

then  ; 
And  to  all  that  could  tend  to  his  comfort  I  saw,  — 
For  he  seemed  like  a  child  till  he  went  to  the 
War! 

He  is  twenty,  I  know  ;  and  boys  younger  than  he, 
In  the  ranks  going  by,  every  day  we  can  see; 
And  those  stronger  and   prouder,   by  far  I  have 

met, 
But  I  never  have  seen  a  young  soldier,  as  yet, 
With  so  gallant  a  mien,  or  so  lofty  a  brow,  — 
How  the  sun  and  the  wind  must  have  darkened  it 

now  ! 
How  he  will  have  been  changed  when  he  comes 

from  the  South  !  — 


THE  SOLDIERS  MOTHER.  43 

With  his  board  shutting  out  the  sweet  smiles  of  his 

mouth ; 
And  the  tremulous  beauty,  the  womanly  grace, 
Will  be  bronzed  from  the  delicate  lines  of  his  face, 
Where,  of  late,  only  childhood's  soft  beauty  I  saw,- — 
For    he    seemed    like  a  child  till   he  went  to  the 

War! 

lie  was  always  so  gentle,  and  ready  to  yield  ; 
And  so  frank,  there  was  nothing  kept  back  or  con- 
cealed ; 
He  was  always  so  sparkling  with  laughter  and  joy, 
I  had  thought  he  never  could  cease  being  a  boy  ; 
But  when  sounded  the  cannon  for  battle,  and  when 
Rose  the  rallying  cry  of  our  Nation  for  men, 
From  the  dream-loving  mood   of  his  boyhood  he 

passed ; 
From  his  path  the  light  fetters  of  pleasure  he  cast ; 
And  rose,  ready  to  stand  in  the  perilous  van, 
Not  the  tremulous  boy,  but  the  resolute  man  ; 
And  I  gazed   on   him  sadly,  with   trembling  and 

awe,  — 
He  was  only  a  child  till  he  went  to  the  War  ! 

There  are  homes  that  are  humbler  and  sadder  than 

ours  ; 
There   are  ways   that   are   barer  of  beauty   and 

flowers  ; 


44  THE  DEAD  DRUMMER-BOY. 

There  are  those  that  must  suffer  for  fire  and  bread, 
Living  only  to  sorrow  and  wish  they  were  dead ; 
I  must  try  and  be  patient —  I  must  not  repine  — 
But  what  heart  is  more  lonely,  more  anxious  than 

mine  ! 
Or  what  hearth  can  be  darker  than  mine  seems 

to  be, 
"Now  the  glow  of  the  firelight  is  all  I  can  see,  — 
Where  my  darling,  in  beauty,  so  lately  I  saw,  — 
He  was  only  a  child,  till  he  went  to  the  War ! 


THE  DEAD  DRUMMER-BOY. 

^1%/TIDST  tangled  roots  that  lined  the  wild  ravine 
Where  the  fierce  fight  raged  hottest  through 
the  day, 
And  where  the  dead  in  scattered  heaps  were  seen, 
Amid  the  darkling  forest's  shade  and  sheen, 
Speechless  in  death  he  lay. 

The  setting  sun,  which  glanced  athwart  the  place 

In  slanting  lines,  like  amber-tinted  rain, 
Fell  sidewise  on  the  drummer's  upturned  face, 
Where  death  had  left  his  gory  finger's  trace 
In  one  briffht  crimson  stain. 


THE  DEAD  DRUMMER-BOY.  45 

The  silken  fringes  of  his  once  bright  eye 
Lay  like  a  shadow  on  his  cheek  so  fair ; 
His  lips  were  parted  by  a  long-drawn  sigh, 
That  with  his  soul  had  mounted  to  the  sky 
On  some  wild  martial  air. 

No  more  his  hand  the  fierce  tattoo  shall  beat, 

The  shrill  reveille,  or  the  long  rolFs  call, 
Or  sound  the  charge,  when  in  the  smoke  and  heat 
Of  fiery  onset,  foe  with  foe  shall  meet, 
And  gallant  men  shall  fall. 

Yet  may  be  in  some  happy  home,  that  one, 
A  mother,  reading  from  the  list  of  dead, 
Shall  chance  to  view  the  name  of  her  dear  son, 
And  move  her  lips  to  say,  "  God's  will  be  done  !  * 
And  bow  in  grief  her  head. 

But  more  than  this  what  tongue  shall  tell  his  story  ? 

Perhaps  his  boyish  longings  were  for  fame  ; 
He  lived,  he  died  ;  and  so,  memento  mori,  — 
Enough  if  on  the  page  of  War  and  Glory 
Some  hand  has  writ  his  name. 


46  A  NATIONAL  HYMN. 

A  NATIONAL  HYMN. 

BY   PARK   BENJAMIN. 

/"^  REAT  God !  to  whom  our  nation's  woes, 

Our  dire  distress,  our  angry  foes, 
In  all  their  awful  gloom  are  known, 
We  bow  to  Thee  and  Thee  alone. 

We  pray  Thee  mitigate  this  strife, 
Attended  by  such  waste  of  life, 
Such  wounds  and  anguish,  groans  and  tears, 
That  fill  our  inmost  hearts  with  fears. 

Oh,  darkly  now  the  tempest  rolls, 
Wide  o'er  our  desolated  souls ; 
Yet,  beaten  downward  to  the  dust, 
In  Thy  forgiveness  still  we  trust. 

We  trust  to  Thy  protecting  power 

In  this,  our  country's  saddest  hour, 

And  pray  that  Thou  wilt  spread  Thy  shield 

Above  us  in  the  camp  and  field. 


O,  God  of  battles !  let  Thy  might 
Protect  our  armies  in  the  light  — 
Till  they  shall  win  the  victory, 
And  set  the  hapless  bondmen  free. 


, 


AVENGED!  47 

'Till,  guided  by  Thy  glorious  hand, 
Those  armies  reunite  the  land, 
And  North  and  South  alike  shall  raise 
To  God  their  peaceful  hymns  of  praise. 


AVENGED! 

BY   ORPHEUS   C.   KERR.* 

i^i  OD'S  scales  of  Justice  hang  between 

The  deed  Unjust  and  the  end  Unseen, 
And  the  sparrow's  fall  in  the  one  is  weighed 
By  the  Lord's  own  hand  in  the  other  laid. 

In  the  prairie  path  to  our  Sunset  gate, 
In  the  flow'ring  heart  of  a  new-born  State, 
Are  the  hopes  of  an  old  man's  waning  years, 
'Neath  headstones  worn  with  an  old  man's  tears. 

When  the  bright  sun  sinks  in  the  rose-lipped  West, 
His  last  red  ray  is  the  headstone's  crest : 
And  the  mounds  he  laves  in  a  crimson  flood 
Are  a  Soldier's  wealth  baptized  in  blood  ! 

Do  ye  ask  who  reared  those  headstones  there, 
And  crowned  with  thorns  a  sire's  gray  hair  ? 
*  R.  II.  Neictll 


48  AVENGED! 

And  by  whom  the  Land's  great  debt  was  paid 
To  the  Soldier  old,  in  the  graves  they  made  ? 

Shrink,  Pity,  shrink,  at  the  question  dire ; 
And,  Honor,  burn  in  a  blush  of  fire  ! 
Turn,  Angel,  turn,  from  the  page  thine  eyes, 
Or  the  Sin,  once  written,  never  dies ! 

They  were  men  of  the  land  he  had  fought  to  save 
From  a  foreign  foe  that  had  crossed  the  wave, 
When  his  sunlit  youth  was  a  martial  song, 
And  shook  a  throne  as  it  swelled  along. 

They  were  sons  of  a  clime  whose  soft,  warm  breath 
Is  the  soul  of  earth,  and  a  life  in  death  ; 
Where  the  Summer  dreams  on  the  couch  of  Spring, 
And  songs  of  birds  through  the  whole  year  ring ; 


Where  the  falling  leaf  is  the  cup  that  grew 
To  catch  the  gems  of  the  new  leafs  dew, 
And  the  winds  that  through  the  vine-leaves  creep 
Are  the  sighs  of  Time  in  a  pleasant  sleep. 


But  there  lurked  a  taint  in  the  clime  so  blest, 
Like  a  serpent  coiled  in  a  ringdove's  nest, 
And  the  human  sounds  to  the  ear  it  gave 
Were  the  clank  of  chains  on  a  low-browed  Slave 


, 


AVENGED!  49 

The  Soldier  old,  at  his  sentry-post, 
Where  the  sun's  last  trail  of  light  is  lost, 
Beheld  the  shame  of  the  land  he  loved, 
And  the  old,  old  love  in  his  bosom  moved. 

He  cried  to  the  land,  Beware  1     Beware 
Of  the  symboled  curse  in  the  Bondman  there  ! 
And  a  prophet's  soul  in  fire  came  down 
To  live  in  the  voice  of  old  John  Brown. 

He  cried ;  and  the  ingrate  answer  came 
In  words  of  steel  from  a  tongue  of  flame ; 
They  dyed  his  hearth  in  the  blood  of  kin, 
And  his  dear  ones  fell  for  the  Nation's  Sin  ! 

Oh,  matchless  deed !  that  a  fiend  might  scorn  ; 
Oh,  deed  of  shame  !  for  a  world  to  mourn  ; 
A  prophet's  pay  in  his  blood  most  dear, 
And  a  land  to  mock  at  a  Father's  tear  ! 

Is 't  strange  that  the  tranquil  soul  of  age 
Was  turned  to  strife  in  a  madman's  rage  ? 
Is  't  strange  that  the  cry  of  blood  did  seem 
'     Like  the  roll  of  drums  in  a  martial  dream? 

Is't  strange  that  the  clank  of  the  Helot's  chain 
Should  drive  the  Wrong  to  the  old  man's  brain, 
4 


50  A  VENGED  ! 

To  fire  his  heart  with  a  Santon's  zeal, 
And  mate  his  arm  to  the  Soldier's  steel  ? 

The  bane  of  Wrong  to  its  depth  had  gone, 
And  the  sword  of  Right  from  its  sheath  was  drawn, 
But  the  cabined  Slave  heard  not  his  cry, 
And  the  old  man  armed  him  but  to  die. 

Ye  may  call  him  mad  that  he  did  not  quail 
When  his  stout  blade  broke  on  the  unblest  mail ; 
Ye  may  call  him  mad,  that  he  struck  alone, 
And  made  the  land's  dark  Curse  his  own  ; 

But  the  Eye  of  God  looked  down  and  saw 

A  just  life  lost  by  an  unjust  law  ; 

And  black  was  the  day  with  God's  own  frown 

When  the  Southern  Cross  was  a  martyr's  Crown  ! 

Apostate  clime  !  the  blood  then  shed 
Fell  thick  with  vengeance  on  thy  head, 
To  weigh  it  down  'neath  the  coming  rod, 
When  thy  red  hand  should  be  stretched  to  God. 

Behold  the  price  of  the  life  ye  took ; 
At  tin;  death  ye  gave  'twas  a  world  that  shook  : 
And  the  despot  deed  that  one  heart  broke, 
From  their  slavish  sleep  a  million  woke  ! 


AVENGED!  51 

Not  all  alone  did  the  victim  fall, 

Whose  wrongs  first  brought  him  to  your  thrall: 

The  old  man  played  a  Nation's  part, 

And  ye  struck  your  blow  at  the  Nation's  heart ! 

The  freemen  host  is  at  your  door, 

And  a  voice  goes  forth  with  a  stern  "  No  more  !" 

To  the  deadly  Curse,  whose  swift  redeem 

Was  the  visioned  thought  of  John  Brown's  dream, 

To  the  Country's  Wrong  and  the  Country's  Stain, 
It  shall  prove  as  the  scythe  to  the  yielding  grain  ; 
And  the  dauntless  power  to  spread  it  forth 
Is  the  freeborn  soul  of  the  chainless  North. 

From  the  East  and  West  and  North  they  come, 
To  the  bugle's  call  and  the  roll  of  drum ; 
And  a  form  walks  viewless  by  their  side,  — 
A  form  that  was  born  when  the  Old  Man  died ! 

The  Soldier  old  in  his  grave  may  rest, 
Afar  with  his  dead  in  the  prairie  West; 
But  the  red  ray  falls  on  the  headstone  there, 
Like  a  God's  reply  to  a  Soldier's  prayer. 

He  may  sleep  in  peace  'neath  the  greenwood  pall, 
For  the  land's  great  heart  hath  heard  his  call ; 


52        FLAG    OF   THE    CONSTELLATION. 

And  a  people's  Will  and  a  people's  Might 
Shall  right  the  Wrong  and  proclaim  the  Right. 

The  foe  may  howl  at  the  fiat  just, 
And  gnash  his  fangs  in  the  trodden  dust; 
But  the  battle  leaves  his  bark  a  wreck, 
And  the  Freeman's  heel  is  on  his  track. 

Not  all  in  vain  is  the  lesson  taught, 

That   a   great   soul's   Dream   is   the  world's  New 

Thought ; 
And  the  Scaffold  marked  with  a  death  sublime 
Is  the  Throne  ordained  for  the  coming  time. 


FLAG  OF   THE   CONSTELLATION. 

BY   T.    BUCHANAN   READ. 

rpUIE  stars  of  morn  on  our  banner  borne 

With  the  iris  of  heaven  are  blended  ; 
The  hand  of  our  sires  first  mingled  those  fires, 
And  by  us  they  shall  be  defended. 

cnoiUTS. 

Then  hail  the  true  Red,  White,  and  Blue, 
The  flag  of  the  constellation  ; 


WAR  SONG.  53 

It  sails  as  it  sailed  by  our  forefathers  hailed, 
O'er  battles  that  made  us  a  nation. 

What  hand  so  bold,  as  strike  from  its  fold, 
One  star  or  one  stripe  of  its  bright'ning  ? 

For  him  be  those  stars  each  a  fiery  Mars, 
Each  stripe  be  a  terrible  lightning. 

Then  hail  the  true  Red,  etc. 

Its  meteor  form  shall  ride  the  storm, 
Till  the  fiercest  of  foes  surrender ; 

The  storm  gone  by,  it  shall  gild  the  sky, 
A  rainbow  of  peace  and  of  splendor. 

Then  hail  the  true  Red,  etc. 

Peace  to  the  world,  is  our  motto  unfurled, 
Though  we  shun  not  the  field  that  is  gory ; 

At  home  or  abroad,  fearing  none  but  our  God, 
We  will  carve  our  own  pathway  to  glory. 
Then  hail  the  true  Red,  etc. 


W 


WAR   SONG. 

BY   WILLIAM    H.    C.    IIOSMER. 

ITH  sword  on  thigh,  "  to  do  or  die," 
I  march  to  meet  the  foe  ; 


54  WAR  SONG. 

A  pirate  band  have  cursed  the  land, 
Then  deal  the  deadly  blow. 

To  Richmond  on,  and  write  upon 
Her  walls  the  words  of  doom ; 

Secession's  horde  from  Freedom's  sword 
Deserves  a  bloody  tomb. 

Sound,  bugle,  sound  !  a  rally  round 

The  Star-flag  of  the  Free  ; 
Nursed  by  a  flood  of  generous  blood 

Was  Freedom's  sacred  tree. 
Accursed  by  God  in  dust  be  trod 

Rebellion's  hellish  horde  ; 
The  fiends  to  tame  hearts  are  aflame 

With  cannon-peal  and  sword. 

'T  is  hard  to  leave  the  babes  that  grieve 

For  a  fond,  absent  sire  ; 
His  cherished  wife,  charm  of  his  life, 

To  brave  the  battle's  fire ; 
But  duty  calls,  and  loudly  falls 

Our  war-cry  on  the  car; 
Our  banners  wave  above  the  brave  — 

Then  on  !  and  know  not  fear. 


THE  FLAG    OF    THE  SKY.  55 

THE   FLAG   OF  THE   SKY. 

ANONYMOUS. 

"VXTTLLIE  stood  at  the  window,  — 

Little  Willie  of  five  years  old,  — 
Watching  the  rainbow  colors, 

As  they  fade  in  the  sunset's  gold. 

Red  pennants  and  streamers  of  fire, 

On  the  blue  expanse  unfurl, 
And  over  the  red  the  white  clouds  lie, 

Like  floating  mists  of  pearl. 

"  Is  n't  it  beautiful,  mamma  ? 

And  the  dark  eyes  grow  so  bright, 
They  almost  seem  to  catch  the  glow 
Of  the  sky's  wild  glory  light. 

"  See,  there  is  the  red,  mamma, 
And  there  is  the  beautiful  blue  ; 
Did  God  make  the  beautiful  red, 

And  did  he  make  the  white  clouds,  too  ? 

M  And  away  up,  up  in  the  sky, 
Is  such  a  little  bright  star; 
Why,  God  is  for  the  Union,  — 
Is  n't  He,  mamma  ?  " 


56  TO-DAY. 

TO-DAY. 

BY  JOEL  BENTON. 

npHROUGH  gates  of  gold  and  pearl  he  came, 
The  eastern  hills  were  all  aflame ; 

He  touched  the  earth  with  tender  light, 
And  kissed  away  the  shades  of  night. 

"  Here  comes  our  Friend,"  the  Lily  said  ; 
The  Rose  blushed  to  a  deeper  red, 

And  all  the  gentle  race  of  flowers 
Poured  incense  for  the  Morning  Hours. 

The  sky  bent  down  its  deepest  blue  ; 
From  tree  to  tree  the  Robins  flew  ; 

The  jewelled  fields  grew  hourly  fair ; 
Bird-carols  floated  on  the  air  ;  — 

The  woods  were  still,  as  in  a  dream, 
And  like  a  diamond  shone  the  stream 

"  To-day,  a  King  is,  in  disguise," 
Observed  the  poet,  shrewdly  wise ; 


TO-DAY.  57 

A  servant,  also,  to  obey 

And  lead  you  where  you  point  the  way. 

Who  wrestle  with  him  hour  by  hour, 

He  iec^«  to  Fame  and  Wealth  and  Power ; 

For,  who  win  his  treasured  stores, 
Must  first  assail  his  realm  by  Force. 

Small  note  he  takes  of  varying  creeds, 
His  record  lies  in  words  and  deeds  ;  — 

Actions  that  grow  to  fair  renown,  — 
These  are  the  jewels  in  his  crown. 

Discourse  is  vain  ;  his  lips  are  dumb, 
No  oracles  from  him  can  come  ;  — 

To  all  the  questioner  says  or  thinks, 
He  is  as  subtle  as  the  Sphinx. 

In  him  all  issues  centred  are, 

His  realm  extends  to  Sun  and  Star, — 

And  on  his  car,  which  will  not  wait, 
He  bears  the  Keys  of  Time  and  Fate. 


58  FOLLOWING    THE  DRUM. 

Up,  Man  !  and  labor  while  you  may  ; 
Behold  your  King,  or  Slave,  To-day. 


FOLLOWING  THE  DRUM. 

TT^ISS  me  good-by,  my  dear  !  "  he  said  ; 

"  When  I  come  back  we  will  be  wed." 
Crying,  she  kissed  him,  "  Good-by,  Ned!  " 
And  the  soldier  followed  the  drum, 

The  drum, 
The  echoing,  echoing  drum. 

Rataplan  !     Rataplan  !     Rataplan  ! 
Follow  me,  follow  me,  each  true  man ; 
Living  or  dying,  strike  while  you  can  ! 

And  the  soldiers  followed  the  drum, 
The  drum, 

The  echoing,  echoing  drum. 

Proudly  and  firmly  marched  of!'  the  men  ; 
Who  had  a  Bweetheart  thought  of  her  then  ; 
Tears  were  coining,  but  brave  lips  smiled  when 

The  soldiers  followed  the  drum, 
The  drum, 

The  echoing,  echoing  drum. 


THE    UNION.  59 

One  with  a  woman's  curl  next  to  his  heart, 

He  felt  her  last  smile  pierce  like  a  dart ; 

She  thought  "  death  in  life  "  comes  when  we  part 

From  soldiers  following  the  drum, 
The  drum, 

The  echoing,  echoing  drum. 


THE  UNION! 

A  NATIONAL  SONG. 

BY    FRANCIS   DE   HAES   JANVIER. 

u  Liberty  and  Union,  now  and  forever,  one  and  inseparable ! n 

Webster. 

I. 

npiIE    Union  !     The   Union  !     The   hope  of  the 
±        free  ! 

Howsoe'er  we  may  differ,  in  this  we  agree  :  — 
Our  glorious  banner  no  traitor  shall  mar, 

By  effacing  a  stripe,  or  destroying  a  star ! 
Division  !     No,  never  !     The  Union  forever  ! 

And  cursed  be  the  hand  that  our  country  would 
sever ! 


60  THE   UNION. 


II. 

The  Union  !     The  Union  !     *T  was  purchased  with 
blood  ! 
Side  by  side,  to  secure  it,  our  forefathers  stood :  — 
From  the  North  to  the  South,  through  the  length 
of  the  land, 
Ran  the  war-cry  which  summoned  that  patriot 
band  ! 
Division  !     No,  never  !     The  Union  forever ! 
And  cursed  be  the  hand  that  our  country  would 
sever ! 

in 

The  Union  !     The  Union  !     At  Lexington  first, 
Through  the  clouds  of  oppression,  its   radiance 
burst :  — 
But  at  Yorktown  rolled  back  the  last  vapory  crest, 
And,    a    bright   constellation,    it   blazed  in  the 
West ! 
Division  !     No,  never  !     The  Union  forever  ! 
And  cursed  be  the  hand  that  our  country  would 
sever ! 

IV. 

The  Union  !     The  Union  !     Its  heavenly  light 
Cheers  the  hearts  of  the  nations  who  grope  in 
the  night,  — 


THE  BATTLE.  61 

And,  athwart  the   wide   ocean,   falls,   gilding   the 
tides, 
A  path  to  the  country  where  Freedom  abides ! 
Division  !     No,  never  !     The  Union  forever  ! 
And  cursed  be  the  hand  that  our  country  would 
sever  ! 


The  Union  !     The  Union  !     In  God  we  repose  ! 
We  confide  in  the  power  that  vanquished  our 
foes  ! 
The  God  of  our  fathers,  —  Oh,  still  may  He  be 

The  strength  of  the  Union,  the  hope  of  the  free ! 
Division  !     No,  never  !     The  Union  forever  ! 
And  cursed  be  the  hand  that  our  country  would 
sever ! 


THE  BATTLE. 

BY  RUTH   N.   CROMWELL, 

HPHE  battle  was  over,  we  had  won  it,  they  said  ; 

I  heard  the  brief  tale  of  the  heroes  who  led, — 
Of  the  hosts  that  went  in,  of  the  few  that  came  out, 
Of  the  charge  for  the  Union,  —  the  carnage  and 
rout. 


62  THE  BATTLE. 

God  pity  the  hearts  that  are  cleft  to  the  core 
For  the  heroes  who  fell  on  Potomac's  blue  shore ! 

Alone  by  my  casement,  at  the  dead  of  the  night, 
Like   a   blast   from  the   battle  came  news  of  the 

fight; 
I  heard  not  the  shriek  of  the  death-dooming  gun, 
I  saw  not  the  sabres  that  flashed  in  the  sun  ; 
No  tumult  of  glory  lit  up  the  dark  plain 
Whose  furrows  ran  red  with  the  blood  of  the  slain. 

Oh,  deaf  was  my  ear  to  the  whoop  and  the  roar, 
And  blind  was  my  eye  to  the  trappings  of  war ; 
I  saw  not  the  charger,  decked  out  in  his  pride, 
For   the   pale  horse  of  Death  that  stalked  by  his 

side ; 
O  paeans  of  joy,  hosanna  and  prayer, 
Ye  were  lost  in  the  dirges  that  burdened  the  air. 

Ay,    naught    but    the    wail    from    mountain    and 

strand, 
That   arose    to    the    skies    from    the    heart   of  the 

land  ; 

0  Columbia,  my  country,  proud  land  of  my  birth, 

1  have  need  to  remember  thy  mission  on  earth; 
I  have  need  to  remember,  heart-weary  and  torn, 
The  flag  that  our  fathers  unl'ml'd  to  the  morn. 


THE  DYING  SOLDIER.  63 

May  the  sheen  of  thy  rifles  die  out  in  the  glade, 
With  brother  no  longer  'gainst  brother  arrayed ; 
May  the  swords  of  the  children  be  sheathed  to  the 

hilt 
On  the  plain  where   the  blood  of  the  martyrs  was 

spilt ; 
May  the  Star-Spangled  Banner,  bright  gleaming 

of  heaven, 
Float  over  the  hearts  that  no  longer  are  riven. 

Thou  art  travailing  to-day,  in  anguish  and  woe,  — 
The  breast  that  should  shield  is  the  breast  of  thy 

foe  ; 
While  I  gaze  on  thy  hills,  where  naught  should  be 

seen 
But  the  low-waving  lines  of  thy  emerald  green, 
I  have  need  to  remember,  all  memories  above, 
That  the  God  whom  we  worship  chastiseth  in  love. 


THE  DYING  SOLDIER. 

TXT  EAR  Y  and  worn  to  a  skeleton  form 

He  lay  on  a  couch  of  pain, 
And  his  wish  at  even,  his  prayer  at  morn, 
Were  to  visit  his  home  again. 


64  THE  DYING  SOLDIER. 

He  talked  of  his  mother  far  away, 

And  he  talked  of  his  lonely  wife, 
When  the  fever  frenzied  his  burning  head 

And  loosened  his  hold  of  life. 

He  talked  of  his  home,  the  fair  free  land, 

The  home  of  his  childhood's  play  ; 
He  talked  of  his  babe,  and  the  large  tears  fell 

And  rolled  from  his  cheeks  away. 

We  told  him  his  feet  might  never  again 

Walk  over  his  native  sod, 
But  ere  long  they  should  tread  the  golden  streets, 

At  home  in  the  city  of  God. 

And  we  said  though  his  eye  should  never  behold 

The  forms  of  his  earth's  deep  love, 
He  should  wait  for  them  there,  by  the  life  river  fair, 

In  the  garden  of  beauty  above. 

But  he  wept,  and  he  talked  of  his  burial  lone 

In  a  stranger's  unnoticed  bed,  — 
That  no  rose  by  affection's  hand  would  be  trained 

To  wave  o'er  his  grave  when  dead. 

We  told  him  that  God  would  mark  the  spot 
Where  all  of  his  children  lay, 


TEE  DYING  SOLDIER.  65 

And  not  one  of  his  loved  ones  be  forgot 
On  the  resurrection  day. 

But  he  sighed,  and  whispered  —  "  So  long,  so  long, 

So  many  long  weary  years ! 
And  my  lonely  wife  and  little  one 

Alone  in  a  vale  of  tears." 

We  told  him  the  Word  of  God  had  gone  forth, 

In  truth  and  holiness, 
As  the  Friend  of  the  widow's  lonely  life, 

The  Guide  of  the  fatherless. 

When  death  had  stilled  that  loving  heart, 

Kind  hands  with  gentle  care 
Had  saved  for  her,  that  lonely  wife, 

One  tress  of  his  lon£,  bright  hair. 

Then  they  wrapped  the  worn-out  soldier's  clothes 

Round  the  martyred  hero's  breast, 
And  in  his  rude,  unvarnished  bed, 

Laid  him  sadly  away  to  rest. 

Not  a  hymn  was  sung,  not  a  prayer  was  raised, 

Not  a  word  of  counsel  said, 
But  the  hireling's  rude,  uncareful  hands 

Piled  the  damp  mould  o'er  his  head.  M. 

5 


66       HEAD    OF   THE   COLUMN. 
HEAD  OF  THE  COLUMN. 

BY   EDWARD   WILLET. 

T  SAT  at  the  edge  of  the  battle, 

Though  the  shell  around  me  burst ; 
And  I  watched  the  column  charoing, 
And  felt  that  you  were  the  first. 

Through  the  smoke  and  the  fire,  the  column 
Pressed  onward  again  and  again, 

Till  it  melted  under  the  tempest 
Of  the  terrible  leaden  rain. 

Broken  and  shattered,  the  column 
Slowly  drew  out  from  the  fight, 

And  my  heart  sank  down  witMh  me, 
Sick  at  the  sorrowful  sight. 


e> 


So  few  of  that  Morions  column 

So  sadly  came  back  from  the  field : 

Alas  !  they  had  fought  too  bravely  ; 
Oh  !  were  it  not  better  to  yield  ? 

But  never  the  wife  of  a  soldier 

Should  grieve  for  the  life  she  has  given  ; 
She  gave  it,  —  if  God  shall  return  it, 

So  much  she  is  owin"  to  Heaven. 


HEAD    OF   THE   COLUMN.  67 

She  gave  it,  —  when  battle  shall  claim  it, 
Not  hers,  but  her  country  's  the  loss. 

Ah  !  well,  she  may  weep  for  her  country, 
And  silently  bear  her  cross. 

I  hoped,  of  the  shells  that  were  flying 

And  bursting  around  me  in  air, 
Some  merciful  one  would  strike  me, 

At  the  edge  of  the  battle  there. 

But  back  to  the  shattered  column 

In  safety  I  picked  my  way,  — 
Such  pitying  looks  they  gave  me, 

But  none  had  a  word  to  say. 

They  led  up  your  horse  ;  he  was  bloody, 
With  the  blood  of  the  noble  and  true  : 

From  his  reeking  side  I  kissed  it, — 
It  was  all  that  was  left  me  of  you. 


Oh,  never  the  wife  of  a  soldier 

Should  grieve  for  the  life  she  has  given  ! 
She  gave  it  — if  battle  shall  claim  it, 

So  much  she  has  laid  up  in  Heaven. 


But  the  bullet  that  slew  my  darling 
Is  piercing  my  poor  heart  through. 


68  THE  SOLDIER'S  LETTER. 

What  tears  I  must  shed  for  my  country, 
Though  none  I  may  weep  for  you  ! 


THE   SOLDIER'S    LETTER. 

TTOW  sweet,  when  night  her  misty  veil 

Around  the  weary  soldier  throws, 
And  twilight's  golden  skies  grow  pale, 

And  wooing  winds  invite  repose, 
To  sit  beside  the  watchfire's  blaze, 

Where  friendly  comrades  nightly  come, 
To  sing  the  song  of  other  days, 

And  talk  of  things  we  love  at  home,  — 

Of  those  we  love  and  list  and  wait, 

Beneath  the  same  benignant  moon. 
The  postman's  step  behind  the  gate, 

With  tidings  from  the  absent  one; 
And  beaming  smiles  their  thoughts  reveal, 

And  love  is  mirrored  in  their  eyes, 
As  eagerly  they  break  the  seal, 

Elate  with  joy  and  glad  surprise. 

But  dearer  vet  the  shout  that  rings 
In  exultation  loud  and  clear, 


THE  SOLDIERS  LETTER.  69 

To  hail  the  messenger  who  brings 

Letters  from  home  and  kindred  dear ; 

And  'neath  the  pale  moon's  smiling  light 
The  soldier  reads  his  treasure  o'er; 

And  through  the  hours  of  silent  night, 
In  dreams  he  visits  home  onee  more. 

In  dreams  he  sits  beside  the  hearth, 

Afar  from  eamps  and  traitor's  wiles, 
And  deems  the  dearest  spot  on  earth 

Where  loving  wife  and  mother  smiles ; 
And  many  a  face  almost  forgot, 

And  many  a  word  so  fondly  spoken, 
Come  flitting  round  the  soldier's  cot. 

Till  the  sweet  dream,  at  morn,  is  broken. 

O  ye  who  love  the  soldier  well, 

Bid  him  be  hopeful,  brave,  and  gay ; 
Better  he  knows  than  you  can  tell, 

The  perils  that  attend  his  way. 
Some  word  of  hope  in  battle's  hour, 

While  striving  with  a  vengeful  foe, 
Has  nerved  the  soldier's  arm  with  power, 

To  strike  or  ward  the  impending  blow. 

The  soldier  brave  is  often  prone 
To  deem  himself  forgotten  quite, 


70  GOD  SAVE  THE  NATION! 

A  wanderer  on  the  earth  alone, 

When  friends  at  home  negleet  to  write. 

Then  cheer  him  oft  with  words  like  these, 
And  thus  your  deep  affection  prove  ; 

Let  every  keel  that  ploughs  the  seas 
Bear  him  some  message  full  of  love. 


GOD  SAVE  THE  NATION! 

A  WAR  HYMN.* 

BY   THEODORE   TILTON. 

fTUIOU  who  ordainest,  for  the  land's  salvation, 

Famine,  and  fire,  and  sword,  and  lamentation, 
Now  unto  Thee  we  lift  our  supplication  — 
God  save  the  Nation  ! 

By  the  great  sign,  foretold,  of  Thy  Appearing, 
Coming  in  clouds,  while  mortal  men  stand  fearing, 
Show  us,  amid  this  smoke  of  battle,  clearing, 
Thy  chariot  nearing  ! 

By  the  brave  blood  that  floweth  like  a  river, 
Hurl  Thou  a  thunderbolt  from  out  Thy  quiver! 

*  This  hymn  has  been  twelve  times  set  to  music. 


THE  MEN   WHO  FELL   TN  BALTIMORE.    71 

Break  Thou  the  strong  gates  !    Every  fetter  shiver  ! 
Smite  and  deliver  ! 

Slay  Thou  our  foes,  or  turn  them  to  derision !  — 
Then,  in  the  blood-red  Valley  of  Decision, 
Make  the  land  green  with  Peace,  as  in  a  vision 
Of  fields  elysian  ! 


THE  MEN  WHO  FELL   IN  BALTIMORE. 

BY   JOHN   W.    FORNEY. 

/~\UR  country's  call  awoke  the  land, 

^>^   From  mountain  height  to  ocean  strand  ; 

The  Old  Keystone,  the  Bay  State,  too, 

In  all  her  direst  dangers  true, 

Resolved  to  answer  to  her  cry, 

For  her  to  bleed,  for  her  to  die  ; 

And  so  they  marched,  their  flag  before, 

For  Washington,  through  Baltimore. 

Our  men  from  Berks  and  Schuylkill  came  — 
Lehigh  and  Mifflin  in  their  train  : 
First  in  the  field,  they  sought  the  way, 
Hearts  beating  high  and  spirits  gay  : 
Heard  the  wild  yells  of  fiendish  spite, 


72    THE  MEN   WHO  FELL  IN  BALTIMORE. 

Of  armed  mobs  on  left  and  right ; 
But  on  they  marched,  their  flag  before, 
For  Washington,  through  Baltimore. 

Next  came  the  Massachusetts  men, 
Gathered  from  city,  glade,  and  glen  : 
No  hate  for  South,  but  love  for  all, 
They  answered  to  their  country's  call. 
The  path  to  them  seemed  broad  and  bright ; 
They  sought  no  foeman  and  no  fight ; 
As  on  they  marched,  their  flag  before, 
New  England's  braves,  through  Baltimore. 

But  when  they  showed  their  martial  pride, 
And  closed  their  glittering  columns  wide, 
They  found  their  welcome  in  the  fire 
Of  maddened  foes  and  demons  dire, 
Who,  like  the  fiends  of  hell  sent  forth, 
Attacked  these  heroes  of  the  North  : 
These  heroes  bold,  with  travel  sore, 
While  on  their  way  through  Baltimore. 

From  every  stifling  den  and  street, 
They  rushed  the  gallant  band  to  meet,  — 
Forgot  the  cause  they  came  to  save,  — 
Forgot  that  those  they  struck  were  brave,  — 
Forgot  the  dearest  ties  of  blood 


THE  MEN   WEO  FELL  IN  BALTIMORE.    73 

That  bound  them  in  one  brotherhood,  — 
Forgot  the  flag  that  floated  o'er 
Their  countrymen  in  Baltimore. 

And  the  great  song  their  son  had  penned, 
To  rally  freemen  to  defend 
The  banner  of  the  Stripes  and  Stars, 
That  makes  victorious  all  our  wars, 
Was  laughed  to  scorn,  as  madly  then 
They  greeted  all  the  gallant  men 
Who  came  from  Massachusetts  shore 
To  Washington,  through  Baltimore. 

And  when,  with  wildest  grief,  at  last, 
They  saw  their  comrades  falling  fast, 
Full  on  the  hell-hounds  in  their  track, 
They  wheeled,  and  drove  the  cowards  back. 
Then,  with  their  hearts  o'erwhelmed  with  woe, 
Measured  their  progress,  stern  and  slow  ; 
Their  wounded  on  their  shoulders  bore 
To  Washington,  through  Baltimore. 

Yet,  while  New  England  mourns  her  dead, 
The  blood  by  Treason  foully  shed,  — 
Like  that  which  flowed  at  Lexington, 
When  Freedom's  earliest  fight  begun, — 
Will  make  the  day,  the  month,  the  year, 


74  THE  PICKET-GUARD. 

To  every  patriot's  memory  dear. 
Sons  of  great  fathers  gone  before, 
They  fell  for  Right  at  Baltimore  ! 

As  over  every  honored  grave, 
Where  sleeps  the  "  unreturning  brave/ 
A  mother  sobs,  a  young  wife  moans, 
A  father  for  his  lost  one  groans, 
Oh  !  let  the  people  ne'er  forget 
Our  deep,  enduring,  lasting  debt 
To  those  who  left  their  native  shore 
And  died  for  us  in  Baltimore. 


A 


THE  TICKET-GUARD. 

BY   E.    II.* 

LONELY  spot !     Dark  forests  dense, 
For  weary  miles  outstretch  around, 


*  Very  much  of  the  soldier's  picket  duty  in  Western  Virginia 
is  performed  in  gnat,  gloomy  forests,  With  which  the  mountain- 
ous regions  thereabout  are  mainlj  covered.    The  picket  post  is 

usually  on  some  obscure  bridle-path  awa\  up  in  the  mountain's 
side,  or  in  the  narrow  ravine  at  its  hare,  which  divides  it  from  its 
neighbor  hills,  all  equally  elevated,  precipitous,  and  gloomy  — 
and  Oftentimes  miles  distant  from  camp.     The  writer  has  him- 


THE  PICKET-GUARD.  75 

And  far  the  lonely  path  from  hence 
That  echoes  back  the  wagon's  sound. 


How  monarch-like,  leaf-crowned  their  forms, 
Uplift  those  noble  pine  and  oak  — 

They  know  a  hundred  winter's  storms, 
But  not  the  axeman's  ringing  stroke. 

A  dreary  night,  nor  moon  nor  star, 

Scarce  yield  one  ray  to  cheer  the  gloom ; 

Away  from  camp  and  comrade  far 
The  picket,  where  may  be  his  tomb. 

The  boughs  o'erhead  low  bending  grow, 

©  ©    ©  ' 

The  moss  beneath  is  old  and  green  ; 
Amid  the  bushes  crouching  low, 

He  peers,  death-still,  from  forth  between. 

His  rifle  rests  upon  his  knee, 

And  on  the  stock  two  firm  hands  press ; 
Ah!  well  he  knows  how  cheerily 

It  heeds  his  fingers'  quick  caress. 

pelf  thus  been  picketed,  where  for  days  together  not  a  soul  was 
to  be  seen  except  the  members  of  his  own  party.  In  such  soli- 
tudes, the  hush  of  night  is  sometimes  broken  by  the  bark  of  the 
wolf  or  the  panther's  plaintive  cry,  while  the  mountain  fox  fre- 
quently approaches  almost  within  bayonet-thrust  of  the  startled 
picket. 


G  THE  PICKET-GUARD. 

Three  weary  hours  —  or  more  —  are  gone 
The  midnight  must  be  drawing  nigh; 

©  ©  ©       » 

The  brooklet  at  his  feet  runs  on, 
He  hears  its  murmuring  melody. 

A  soothing  sound  !     He  thinks  of  home, 
Of  loved  ones  left  at  duty's  call ; 

And  flocking  round  him  there  they  come, 
The  same  old  faces,  forms,  and  all. 

The  gray-haired  sire  leans  on  his  staff, 
The  matron  lives  with  God  in  heaven  ; 

He  hears  his  brother's  ringing  laugh, 
His  sister's  loving  counsel  given. 

©  o 

But  there  is  yet  another  still, 
A  girlish  form  of  simple  grace ; 

How  beats  his  heart,  his  pulses  thrill, 
Still  gazing  on  that  trusting  face ! 

©  o  © 

Not  long  !  a  near,  quick,  startling  crash, 
And  home  and  friends  and  all  are  lost, 

As  where  he  looked  for  foeman's  Hash, 
The  prowling  beast  steals  past  his  post. 

The  night  wears  on  —  a  full  hour  more 
Creeps  drearily  and  slow  away  ; 


THE  PICKET-GUARD.  77 

The  moments  pass  the  midnight  hour, 
And  glide  into  another  day. 

The  winds  arise ;  he  hears  o'erhead 
Their  wrestlings  in  the  upper  deep ; 

He  knows  to-night  the  Storm-King  dread 
No  common  revelry  will  keep. 

Long-echoed  through  those  forest  aisles, 

©  ©  " 

The  snuffing  wolf  his  warning  brays ; 
The  answering  cry  from  distant  hills, 
The  stealthy  panther's  haunt  betrays. 

The  flitting  nightbird's  shrilly  scream, 

Defiant  of  the  gathering  blast ; 
With  hollow  roar  and  fitful  gleam, 

The  storm  around  him  bursts  at  last. 

A  fearful  storm  !     The  night  is  black, 
The  torrent  pours,  the  tree-tops  reel, 

And  as  it  were  dark  doomsday's  wreck. 
Red  lightnings  flash  and  thunders  peal. 

Against  his  sturdy  tree  close  pressed, 
The  picket's  dripping  form  is  leant, 

And  though  no  shelter,  it  is  rest ; 

Thank  Heaven  !  the  tempest's  wrath  is  spent. 


78  WAR  SONG. 

The  quivering  leaves  their  showers  distil, 
The  swollen  stream  sweeps  madly  on, 

The  north  wind  low  is  numbing  chill 
To  him  that  weary  waits  the  dawn. 

It  comes  at  last  —  O  beam  of  hope ! 

Thank  God  that  doth  the  day  restore ; 
The  sun  mounts  up  the  eastern  slope, 

And,  comrades,  camp  is  gained  once  more. 
Camp  Elkwater,  Va.,  Oct.  14,  1861. 


WAR   SONG. 
DEDICATED  TO  THE  MASSACHUSETTS  REGIMENTS. 
BY   W.   W.   STORY. 

TTP  with  the  Flag  of  the  Stripes  and  the  Stars  ! 
Gather  together  from  plough  and  from  loom  ! 
Hark  to  the  signal !  —  the  music  of  wars 
Sounding  for  tyrants  and  traitors  their  doom. 
March,  march,  march,  march  ! 
Brothers  unite  —  rouse  in  vour  might. 
For  Justice   and  Freedom,  for  God  and  the 
Right  ! 

Down  with  the  foe  to  the  Laud  and  the  Laws ! 
Marching  together,  our  country  to  save, 


WAR  SONG.  79 

God  shall  be  with  us  to  strengthen  our  cause, 
Nervine:  the  heart  and  the  hand  of  the  brave. 
March,  march,  march,  march ! 
Brothers  unite  —  rouse  in  your  might, 
For  Justice  and  Freedom,  for  God  and  the 
Right ! 

Flag  of  the  Free  !  under  thee  we  will  fight, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  our  face  to  the  foe ; 

Death  to  all  traitors,  and  God  for  the  Right ! 
Singing  this  song  as  to  battle  we  go  : 
March,  march,  march,  march  ! 
Freemen  unite  —  rouse  in  your  might, 
For  Justice  and  Freedom,  for  God  and  the 
Right ! 

Land  of  the  Free  —  that  our  fathers  of  old, 
Bleeding  together,  cemented  in  blood  — 

Give  us  thy  blessing,  as  brave  and  as  bold, 
Standing  like  one,  as  our  ancestors  stood  — 
We  march,  march,  march,  march  ! 
Conquer  or  fall !     Hark  to  the  call : 
Justice  and  Freedom  for  one  and  for  all ! 

Chain  of  the  slave  we  have  suffered  so  long  — 
Striving  together,  thy  links  we  will  break! 
Hark !  for  God  hears  us,  as  echoes  our  song, 


80  ELLSWORTH. 

Sounding  the  cry  to  make  Tyranny  quake  : 
March,  march,  march,  march  ! 
Conquer  or  fall  !     Rouse  to  the  call  — 
Justice  and  Freedom  for  one  and  for  all ! 

Workmen  arise  !     There  is  work  for  us  now ; 
Ours  the  red  ledger  for  bayonet  pen  ; 

Sword  be  our  hammer,  and  cannon  our  plough ; 
Liberty's  loom  must  be  driven  by  men  ! 
March,  march,  march,  march  ! 
Freemen  !  we  fight,  roused  in  our  might, 
For  Justice  and  Freedom,  for  God  and  the 
Right ! 


ELLSWORTH. 

"VTTHO  is  this  ye  say  is  slain  ? 

Whose  voice  answers  not  again  ? 
Ellsworth,  shall  we  call  in  vain 
On  thy  name  to-day  ? 
No  !  from  every  vale  and  hill 
Our  response  all  hearts  shall  thrill, 
"  Ellsworth's  fame  is  with  us  still, 
Ne'er  to  pass  away  ! " 


ELLSWORTH.  81 

Bring  that  rebel  banner  low, 

Hoisted  by  a  treacherous  foe  : 

'T  was  for  that  they  dealt  the  blow, 

Laid  him  in  the  dust. 
Raise  aloft,  that  all  may  see, 
His  loved  flag  of  Liberty. 
Forward,  then,  to  victory, 

Or  perish  if  we  must ! 

Hark  to  what  Columbia  saith  : 
"  Mourn  not  for  his  early  death, 
With  each  patriot's  dying  breath 

Strength  renewed  is  given 
To  the  cause  of  truth  and  riidit, 
To  the  land  for  which  they  fight. 
After  darkness  cometh  light,  — 

Such  the  law  of  Heaven." 

So  we  name  him  not  in  vain, 
Though  he  comes  not  back  a#ain  ! 
For  his  country  he  was  slain  ; 

Ellsworth's  blood  shall  rise 
To  our  gracious  Saviour  —  King  ; 
'T  is  a  holy  gift  we  bring  ; 
Such  a  sacred  offering 

God  will  not  despise. 


82  FREEDOM. 

FREEDOM. 

BY   MARTIN   FARQUHAR   TUPPER. 

"VTO  blots  on  the  banner  of  Light ! 

No  Slaves  in  the  land  of  the  Free  ! 
No  Wrong  to  be   rampant  where   all  should  be 
Eight, 
No  sin  that  is  shameful  to  see  ! 
America,  —  show  the  wide  world  in  thy  strength 

How  sternly  determined  thou  art 
To  cut  from  thy  soil,  in  its  breadth  and  its  length, 
The  canker  that  gnaws  at  thy  heart ! 

Uprouse  thee  !  and  swear  by  thy  Might 

This  evil  no  longer  shall  be ; 
For  all  men  are  brothers,  the  black  as  the  white, 

And  sons  of  one  Father  are  we  ! 
America,  —  now  is  the  perilous  time, 

When  safety  is  solely  decreed 
To  ridding  the  heart  of  old  habits  of  crime, 

And  simply  repenting  indeed. 

Away  to  the  bats  and  the  moles 

With  the  lash  and  the  goad  and  the  chain  ! 
Away  with  the  buying  and  selling  of  souls, 

And  slavery  toiling  in  pain  ! 


THE    VOLUNTEER.— WAR  SONG.         85 

America,  this  is  thy  chance  —  now  at  length  — 
Of  crushing — while  crouching  to  thee  — 

Those    Rebels   and  Slaveholders  —  slaves   to  thy 
strength,  — 
The  curse  and  contempt  of  the  Free  ! 


THE   VOLUNTEER. 

TTARD  by  the  porch  of  the  village  church, 
A  dusty  traveller  halts  awhile  to  rest ; 
His  head  droops  tired  down  upon  his  breast, 
But  the  word  of  prayer  wakes  new  life  there. 

"  God  bless  the  brave,  who  go  to  save 

Our  country,  in  her  dark,  dread  hour  of  danger  ! " 
The  good  man's  voice  was  comfort  to  the  stranger. 

Duty  wipes  away  a  tear  as  he  hurries  to  the  war. 


WAR  SONG. 

DEDICATED    TO    THE    KENTUCKY    STATE   GUARD. 


f^HEER,  boys,  cheer,  we  '11  march  away  to  battle, 
boys,  cbec 
our  wives ; 


Cheer,  boys,  cheer,  for  our  sweethearts  and 


84  WAR  SONG. 

Cheer,  boys,  cheer,  we  '11  nobly  do  our  duty, 

And  give  to  Kentucky  our  hearts,  our  arms,  our 
lives. 

Bring  forth  the  flag,  Kentucky's  noble  standard  ; 
Wave  it  on  high  till  the  winds  shake  each  fold 
out ; 
Proudly  it  floats,  nobly  waving  in  the  vanguard  : 
Then  cheer,  boys,  cheer,  with  a  lusty,  long,  bold 
shout. 

Cheer,  boys,  cheer,  etc. 

But  though  we  march  with  heads  all  lowly  bending, 
Let  us  implore  a  blessing  from  on  high  ; 

Our  cause  is  just,  the  Right  from  Wrong  defending, 
And  the  God  of  battles  will  listen  to  our  cry. 
Cheer,  boys,  cheer,  etc. 

Though  to  our  homes  we  never  may  return, 

Ne'er  press  again  our  loved  ones  in  our  arms, 
O  er  our  lone  graves  their  faithful  hearts  will  mourn: 
Then  cheer  up,  boys,  cheer,  such  death  hath  no 
alarms. 

Cheer,  boys,  cheer,  etc. 


BETHEL.  85 

BETHEL. 

BY   A.  J.   H.   DUGANNE. 

"V\7"E    mustered    at   midnight,    in   darkness   we 

formed, 
And   the   whisper   went   round    of    a   fort   to   be 

stormed  ; 
But  no  drum-beat  had  called  us,  no  trumpet  we 

heard, 
And  no  voice  of  command,  but  our  Colonel's  low 

word,  — 

"Column!     Forward!" 

And   out,  through   the  mist  and  the  murk  of  the 

morn, 
From   the   beaches   of  Hampton  our  barges  were 

borne  ; 
And  we  heard  not  a  sound,  save  the  sweep  of  the 

oar, 
Till  the   word  of  our  Colonel  came  up  from  the 

shore,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

With  hearts  bounding  bravely,  and  eyes  all  alight, 
As    ye    dance    to    soft    music,   so   trod   we   that 
night ; 


86  BETHEL. 

Through  the  aisles  of  the  greenwood,  with  vines 

overarched, 
Tossing  dew-drops,  like  gems,  from  our  feet,  as  we 

marched,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

As  ye  dance  with  the  damsels,  to  viol  and  flute, 
So  we  skipped  from  the  shadows,  and  mocked  their 

pursuit  ; 
But  the  soft  zephyrs  chased  us,  with  scents  of  the 

morn, 
As  we  passed  by  the  hay-fields  and  green  waving 

corn, — 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

For  the  leaves  were  all  laden  with  fragrance  of 

June, 
And  the  flowers  and  the  foliage  with  sweets  were 

in  tune  ; 
And  the  air  was  so  calm,  and  the  forest  so  dumb, 
That  we  heard  our  own  heart-beats,  like  taps  of  a 

drum,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

Till  the  lull  of  the  lowlands  was  stirred  by  a  breeze, 
And  the  buskins  of  Morn  brushed  the  tops  of  the 
trees, 


BETHEL.  87 

And  the  glintings  of  glory  that  slid  from  her  track 
By  the  sheen  of  our  rifles  were  gayly  flung  back,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

And   the    woodlands   grew   purple    with   sunshiny 
mist, 

And  the  blue-crested  hill-tops  with  rose-light  were 
kissed, 

And  the  earth  gave  her  prayers  to  the  sun  in  per- 
fumes, 

Till  we  marched  as  through  gardens,  and  trampled 
on  blooms,  — 

"  Column !     Forward  !  " 

Ay  !  trampled  on  blossoms,  and  seared  the  sweet 

breath 
Of  the    green-wood   with  low-brooding  vapors  of 

death  ; 
O'er  the  flowers  and  the  corn  we  were  borne  like  a 

blast, 
And  away  to  the  forefront  of  battle  we  passed, — 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

For  the  cannon's  hoarse  thunder  roared  out  from 

the  glades, 
And   the  sun  was  like  lightning  on  banners  and 

blades, 


88  BETHEL. 

When  the  long  line   of  chanting  Zouaves,  like  a 

flood, 
From  the  green  of  the  woodlands  rolled,  crimson  as 

blood,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

While  the  sound  of  their  song,  like  the  surge  of  the 

seas, 
With  the  "Star-Spangled  Banner"  swelled   over 

the  leas ; 
And   the   sword  of  Duryea,  like  a  torch,  led  the 

way, 
Bearing   down   on    the   batteries   of  Bethel    that 

day,  — * 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

Through    green-tasselled    cornfields    our    columns 

were  thrown, 
And  like  corn  by  the  red  scythe  of  fire  we  were 

mown  ; 

*  The  march  on  Bethel  wu  beguo  Id  high  spirits,  at  midnight, 

but  it  was  near  noon  when  the  Zouaves,  in  their  crimson  uni- 
form, led  by  Colonel  Duryea,  charged  the  batteries,  after  singing 
Wu-  "Star-Spangled  Banner'1  In  chorus.  Major  Winthrop  fell 
in  the  Btorming  <>f  the  enemy's  defences,  and  was  left  on  the  bat- 
tle-field. Lieut,  flreble,  the  only  other  officer  killed,  was  shot  at 
his  gun  shod  after.     This  fatal  contest  inaugurated  the  M  war  of 

posts''  which  raged  Id  Virginia. 


BETHEL.  89 

While  the  cannon's  fierce  ploughings  new-furrowed 

the  plain, 
That  our  blood  might  be  planted  for  Liberty's 

grain,— 

"  Column  !     Forward  ! " 

Oh  !  the  fields  of  fair  June  have  no  lack  of  sweet 

ilowers, 
But  their  rarest  and  best  breathe  no  fragrance  like 

ours  ; 
And  the  sunshine  of  June,  sprinkling  gold  on  the 

corn, 
Hath  no  harvest  that  ripeneth  like  Bethel's  red 

morn,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

When  our  heroes,  like  bridegrooms,  with  lips  and 

with  breath, 
Drank  the  first  kiss  of  Danger  and  clasped  her  in 

death  ; 
And  the  heart  of  brave  Winthrop   grew  mute, 

with  his  lyre, 
When   the  plumes  of  his  genius  lay  moulting  in 

fire,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 


Where  he   fell  shall  be  sunshine  as  bright  as  his 
name, 


90  NORTHMEN,    COME   OUT! 

And  the  grass  where  he  slept  shall  be  green  as  his 

fame; 
For   the   gold   of  the   Pen   and   the   steel   of  the 

Sword 
Write  his  deeds  —  in  his  blood  —  on  the  land  he 

adored,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward!" 

And   the  soul  of  our  comrade  shall   sweeten   the 

air, 
And  the  flowers  and  the  grass-blades  his  memory 

upbear ; 
While  the  breath  of  his  genius,  like  music  in  leaves, 
With  the  corn-tassels  whispers,   and  sings  in  the 

sheaves,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward  ! " 


NORTHMEN,   COME  OUT! 

DEDICATED   TO   THE  MASSACHUSETTS   REGIMBNT8. 

BY   CHARLE8  GODFREY    LELAND. 

(Air  —  Burschtn  heraus  !) 

Northmen, come  out! 

Forth  unto  battle  with  storm  and  shout ! 
Freedom  calls  you  once  again, 


NORTHMEN,    COME  OUT.  !  91 

To  flag  and  fort  and  tented  plain ; 
Then  come  with  drum  and  trump  and  song, 
And  raise  the  war-cry  wild  and  strong  : 
Northmen,  come  out ! 

Northmen,  come  out ! 
The  foe  is  waiting  round  about, 
With  paixhan,  mortar,  and  petard, 
To  tender  us  their  Beau-regard  ; 
With  shot  and  shrapnell,  grape  and  shell, 
We  '11  give  them  back  the  fire  of  hell  : 

Northmen,  come  out ! 

Northmen,  come  out ! 
Give  the  pirates  a  roaring  rout ; 
Out  in  your  strength  and  let  them  know 
How  Working  Men  to  Work  can  go. 
Out  in  your  might  and  let  them  feel 
How  Mudsills  strike  when  edged  with  steel : 

Northmen,  come  out ! 

Northmen,  come  out ! 
Come  like  your  grandsires  stern  and  stout ; 
Though  Cotton  be  of  Kingly  stock, 
Yet  royal  heads  may  reach  the  block  ; 
The  Puritan  taught  it  once  in  pain, 
His  sons  shall  teach  it  once  again  : 

Northmen,  come  out ! 


92  PRO  P ATRIA. 

Northmen,  come  out ! 
Forth  into  battle  with  storm  and  shout ! 
He  who  lives  with  victory  's  blest, 
He  who  dies  gains  peaceful  rest. 
Living  or  dying,  let  us  be 
Still  vowed  to  God  and  Liberty  ! 

Northmen,  come  out ! 


PRO   P ATRIA. 

INSCRIBED  TO   THE  SECOND    NEW  HAMPSHIRE 
REGIMENT. 

BY    THOMAS   BAILEY   ALDKICH. 
I. 

rPHE  grand  old  earth  shakes  at  the  tread  of  tho 
Norsemen, 
Who  meet,  as  of  old,  in  defence  of  the  true ; 
All  hail  to  the  stars  that  are  set  in  their  banner  ! 
All  hail  to  the  red,  and  the  white,  and  the  blue 
As  each  column  wheels  by, 
Hear  their  hearts'  battle-cry, — 
It  was  Warren's,  —  *Tu  siveetfor  our  country  to  die  ! 

11. 

Lancaster  and  Coos,  Laconia  and  Concord, 

Old  Portsmouth  and  Keene,  send  their  stalwart 
young  men  ; 


THE  PICKET-GUARD.  93 

They  come  from  the  plough,  and  the  loom,  and  the 
anvil, 
From  the  marge  of  the  sea,  from  the  hill-top  and 
glen. 

As  each  column  wheels  by, 
Hear  their  hearts'  battle-cry,  — 
It  was  Warren's,  —  'Tis  sweet  for  our  country  to  die  ! 

in. 

The  prayers  of  fair  women,  like  legions  of  angels, 

Watch  over  our  soldiers  by  day  and  by  night ; 
And  the  King  of  all  glory,  the  Chief  of  all  armies, 
Shall  love  them  and  lead  them  who  dare  to  be 
right ! 

As  each  column  wheels  by, 
Hear  their  hearts'  battle-cry,  — 
It  was  Warren's,  — '  Tis  siceetfor  our  country  to  die  ! 


THE  PICKET-GUARD. 

BY    ETHEL    LYNN    BEERS. 

LL  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 
u  Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat,  to  and  fro, 
By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 


A 


94  THE  PICKET-GUARD. 

'T  is  nothing  —  a  private  or  two,  now  and  then, 
Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle ; 

Not  an  officer  lost  —  only  one  of  the  men, 
Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming; 
Their  tents,  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 

Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping ; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard  —  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There 's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed, 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack,  —  his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep,  — 

For  their  mother,  —  may  Heaven  defend  her! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 
That  night,  when  the  love  yd  unspoken 

Leaped  up  to  his  lips,  —  when  low,  murmured  vows 
Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 


THE  PICKET-GUARD.  95 

Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 
He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 

And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place, 
As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

}Ie  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree  — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark  !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing  ? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  —  "Ha!  Mary,  good-by  ! " 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, — 
No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 

While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead,  — 
The  picket 's  off  duty  forever. 


96  THE  HOLY   WAR. 


THE    HOLY   WAR. 

BY   MRS.    HARRIET   BEECHER   STOWE. 

"  And  I  saw  heaven  opened,  and  beheld  a  white  horse ;  and  He 
that  sat  upon  him  was  called  Faithful  and  True,  and  in  right- 
eousness He  doth  judge  and  make  war.  His  eyes  were  as  a  flame 
of  fire,  and  on  His  head  were  many  crowns  ;  and  He  had  a  name 
written,  that  no  man  knew,  but  He  himself.  And  the  armies 
which  were  in  heaven  followed  Him  upon  white  horses,  clothed 


rFO  the  last  battle  set,  throughout  the  earth  ! 

Not  for  vile  lust  of  plunder  or  of  power, 
The  hosts  of  justice  and  eternal  right 
Unfurl  their  banner  in  this  solemn  hour. 

A  King  rides  forth,  whose  eyes,  as  burning  fire, 
Wither  oppression  in  their  dazzling  flame  ; 

And  He  hath  sworn  to  right  all  human  wrong, 
By  the  dread  power  of  His  mysterious  name. 

O'er  all  the  earth  resounds  His  trumpet-call. 

The  nations,  waking  from  their  dreary  night, 
Are  mustering  in  their  ranks,  and  thronging  on 

To  hail  the  brightness  of  His  rising  light  : 

And  all  the  armies  that  behind  Him  ride, 

Come  in  white  raiment,  spotless  as  the  snow ; 


THE  HOLY    WAR.  97 

"  Freedom  and  Justice  "  is  their  battle-cry, 
And  all  the  earth  rejoices  as  they  go. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  ride  the  brother  bands,  — 
Brave  hearts  and  tender,  with  undaunted  eye ; 

With  manly  patience  ready  to  endure, 
With  gallant  daring  resolute  to  die. 

They  know  not  fear,  for  what  have  they  to  fear 
Who  all  have  counted,  and  have  all  resigned, 

And  laid  their  lives  a  solemn  offering  down 

For  laws,  for  truth,  for  freedom,  —  for  mankind  ? 

No  boastful  words  are  theirs,  nor  murderous  zeal, 
Nor  courage  fed  with  the  inebriate  bowl ; 

But  their  brave  hearts  show  in  true  touch  and  time 
The  sober  courage  of  the  manly  soul. 

Ah  !  who  can  say  how  precious  and  how  dear 

Those  noble  hearts,  of  thousand  homes  the  light  ? 

.  .  . 

:  Yet  wives  and  mothers,  smiling  through  their  tears, 

Gave  them,  unmurmuring,  to  the  holy  fight. 

O  brothers,  banded  for  this  sacred  war ! 

Keep  your  white  garments  spotless  still  and  pure 
Be  priestly  warriors,  hallowing  the  right,  — 

So  shall  your  victory  be  swift  and  sure. 
7 


98  JULY  21,  1861. 

So  shall  the  spotless  King  with  whom  ye  ride 
Make  vile  disorder  from  the  earth  to  cease  ; 

And  Time's  triumphant  songs  at  last  shall  hail 
The  victory  of  a  true  and  righteous  peace. 


T 


JULY  21ST,  1861. 

BY  A.    L. 

HE  dawn  in  Virginia  came  forth  in  its  beauty, 
The  stars  glimmered  softly,  then  faded  away  ; 
And  many  a  soldier  rose  up  to  his  duty, 
To  fight  for  the  Union  and  Freedom  that  day. 

The  morning  wind  stirs  —  like  some  far-off  loved 

fingers  — 
The  plumes  of  the  chieftains  with  flickering  breath ; 
And  Victory  follows,  and  hovers,  and  lingers,  — 
Alas,  but  o'er  those  that  are  marching  to  death  ! 

How  fairly  the  columns  step  out  in  their  order, 

Their  bayonets  gleam  in  the  dim  dusky  light  ; 

Their  music  plays  "  Dixie,"  and  "  Over  the  Bor- 
der," 

Down  the  long  dusty  road  as  they  march  to  the 
fight. 


JULY  21,  1861.  99 

How  soft  on  yon  hill-side  the  young  trees  are  wav- 
ing,— 

How  peaceful  the  fields  lie  in  summer's  display  ; 

O  soldiers  !  you  know  not  the  perils  you  're  brav- 
ing ! 

O  leaders,  be  wary  !  look  well  to  the  way ! 

Those  iron-wrought  guns  that  lie  hid  in  the  distance, 
Those  batteries  planted  to  check  our  hot  haste,  — 
More  tender  their  mercies,  more  kind  their  resist- 
ance, 
Than  that  of  the  Rebels  by  whom  they  are  placed ! 

Brave  enemies  they ;  though  stern-hearted   you  11 

find  them, 
Their  open-mouthed  vengeance  is  honestly  sped ; 
But  cowards  and  savages  lurk  there  behind  them, 
Who  sabre  the  dying  and  mangle  the  dead. 

Alas  for  the  South  !  —  was  her  fame  all  unfounded  ? 
Her  praises  are  royal,  —  believe  them  who  list ; 
But  her  brave  soldiers  aim  at  the  fallen  and  wounded, 
And  the  "  chivalry"  strike  —  those  who  cannot  re- 
sist ! 

Let  History  tell  —  for  her  words  will  not  quiver, 
Her  eyes  will  see  clearly,  her  heart  will  be  still  — 


100  JULY  21,  18G1. 

The  tale  of  that  once  all  unknown  little  river 
That  flows  at  the  base  of  Manassas  Gap  Hill. 

Let  History  tell  with  what  brave,  eaijer  daring 
Our  troops  faced  the  cannon  that  day  at  Bull  Run  ; 
The  fierce  iron  hail,  like  a  winter  storm  bearing, 
Till  the  battle  was  lost  which  their  blood  had  just 
won. 

Let  her  say  they  retreated  ;  —  then  add,  they  were 

fainting 
With  hunger  and  thirst  and  the  strife  of  a  day ; 
And  point  to  the  number  dropped  down  in  deep 

slumber, 
On  their  arms  and  the  greensward  to  rest  by  the 

way ! 

How  silent,  how  dreamless  a  sleep  hath  descended 
On  yonder  red  field  where  their  friends  are  at  rest  ! 
Unguarded  they  lie,  —  undisturbed,  undefended, — 
Only  Honor  keeps  watch  by  each  low-lying  crest. 

The  fitful  nisht-wind  siidis  its  wild  lamentation, 
The  soft-falling  dew  drops  cold  tears  on  their  bed; 
But  heavy  and  hot  will  the  tears  of  the  Nation 
Pour  down  at  the  feet  of  her  Volunteer  dead! 


TO  .VEX   OF   THE  NORTH  AND    WEST.    101 

Tramp,  tramp,  through  the  darkness,  with  "  Steady  ! 

men,  steady  ! " 
In  stillness  and  sadness  the  columns  pass  by  ; 
Driven  back  from  the  trenches,  in  which  they  were 

ready 
To  give  their  young  life-blood,  and  conquer  or  die 

O  morning!  O  daylight!  in  glory  awaking, 
How  can  ye  come  forth  after  such  a  black  night? 
And  with  the  full  burst  of  the  sunbeams  outbreak- 
ing 
Look  down  on  the  tokens  of  death  and  of  flight ! 

The  morning  turned  gray  :  and  then  thicker  and 

faster 
The  rain  with  its  driving  mist  sullenly  came  : 
It  could  not  wash  off  the  dark  signs  of  disaster, 
I   Nor  tarnish  the  glory,  nor  blot  out  the  shame. 


TO  THE  MEN  OF  THE  NORTH  AND  WEST. 

BY    R.    H.    STODDARD. 

TV/TEN  of  the  North  and  West, 
Wake  in  your  might, 
Prepare,  as  the  Rebels  have  done, 
For  the  fight ! 


102     TO  MEN   OF   THE  NORTH  AND    WEST. 

You  cannot  shrink  from  the  test, 
Rise  !  Men  of  the  North  and  West ! 

They  have  torn  down  your  banner  of  stars ; 

They  have  trampled  the  laws ; 
They  have  stifled  the  freedom  they  hate, 

For  no  cause ! 
Do  you  love  it  or  slavery  best  ? 
Speak !  Men  of  the  North  and  West. 

They  strike  at  the  life  of  the  State  :  — 

Shall  the  murder  be  done  ? 
They  cry,  "  We  are  two  !  "     And  you  ? 

"  We  are  one  !  " 
You  must  meet  them,  then,  breast  to  breast ; 
On  !  Men  of  the  North  and  West ! 

Not  with  words ;  they  laugh  them  to  scorn, 

And  tears  they  despise  ; 
But  with  swords  in  your  hands,  and  death 

In  your  eyes ! 
Strike  home !  leave  to  God  all  the  rest, 
Strike  !  Men  of  the  North  and  West ! 


HARVARD  STUDENT'S  SONG.  103 

HARVARD   STUDENT'S   SONG. 

BY    JULIA    WARD   HOWE. 

(DenJcst  du  daran.) 

T>  EMEMBER  ye  the  fateful  gun  that  sounded 
To  Sumter's  walls  from  Charleston's  treach- 
erous shore  ? 
Remember  ye  how  hearts  indignant  bounded 

When  our  first  dead  came  back  from  Baltimore  ? 
The  banner  fell  that  every  breeze  had  flattered, 

The  hum  of  thrift  was  hushed  with  sudden  woe  ; 
We  raised  anew  the  emblems  shamed  and  shattered, 
And  turned  a  front  resolved  to  meet  the  foe. 

Remember  ye,  how  forth  to  battle  faring 

Our  valiant  ranks  the  fierce  attack  withstood, 
In  all  the  terrors  of  the  tumult  bearing 

The  people's  heart  of  dauntless  lionhood  ? 
How  many  a  hand  forsook  its  wonted  labor, 

Forsook  its  gains,  as  prizes  fall'n  in  worth, 
To  wield  with  pain  the  warlike  lance  and  sabre, 

To  conquer  Peace  with  God,  for  all  on  earth  ? 

Remember  ye,  how,  out  of  boyhood  leaping, 
Our  gallant  mates  stood  ready  for  the  fray ; 


104        HARVARD   STUDENT'S  SONG. 

As  new-fledged  eaglets  rise,  with  sudden  sweeping, 
And  meet  unscared  the  dazzling  front  of  day  ? 

Our  elassic  toil  became  inglorious  leisure, 
We  praised  the  calm  Iloratian  ode  no  more  ; 

But  answered  back  with  song  the  martial  measure, 
That  held  its  throb  above  the  cannon's  roar. 

Remember  ye  the  pageants  dim  and  solemn, 

Where  Love  and  Grief  have  borne  the  funeral 
pall  ? 
The  joyless  marching  of  the  mustered  column, 

With  arms  reversed  to  Him  who  conquers  all  ? 
Oh  !  give  them  back,  thou  bloody  breast  of  Treason, 

They  were  our  own,  the  darlings  of  our  lien  its  ! 
They  come  benumbed  and  frosted  out  of  season, 

With  whom  the  summer  of  our  youth  departs. 

Look    back    no    more !    our   time   has    come,  my 
Brothers  !" 

In  Fate's  high  roll  our  names  are  written  too; 
We  fill  the  mournful  gaps  left  bare  by  others, 

The  ranks  where  Fear  has  never  broken  through  ! 
Look,  ancient  walls,  upon  our  stern  election  ! 

Keep,  Echoes  dear,  remembrance  of  our  breath! 
And,  gentle  eyes  and  hearts  of  pure  affection, 

Light  us,  resolved  to  Victory  or  Death  ! 


KISS  ME,   MOTHER,  AND  LET  ME   GO.  105 
KISS   ME,  MOTHER,   AND   LET  ME  GO. 

BY  MISS   NANCY  A.   W.   PRIEST. 

XT  AVE  you  heard  the  news  that  I  heard  to-day? 

The  news  that  trembles  on  every  lip  ? 
The  sky  is  darker  again,  they  say, 

And  breakers  threaten  the  good  old  ship. 
Our  country  calls  on  her  sons  again, 

To  strik^   i     her  name,  at  a  dastard  foe  ; 
She  asks  for  six  hundred  thousand  men ; 

I  would  be  one,  mother.     Let  me  go. 

The  love  of  country  was  born  with  me ; 

I  remember  how  my  young  heart  would  thrill 
When  I  used  to  sit  on  my  grandame's  knee 

And  list  to  the  story  of  Bunker  Hill. 
Life  gushed  out  there  in  a  rich  red  flood ; 

My  grandsire  fell  in  that  fight,  you  know ;  — 
Would  you  have  me  shame  the  brave  old  blood  ? 
'  Nay,  kiss  me,  mother,  and  let  me  go. 

Our  (lag,  the  flag  of  our  hope  and  pride, 

With  its  stars  and  stripes,  and  its  field  of  blue, 

Is  mocked,  insulted,  torn  down,  defied, 
And  trampled  upon  by  the  rebel  crew. 

And  England  and  France  look  on  and  sneer, 


106  KISS  ME,   MOTHER,  AND  LET  ME   GO. 

"  Ha!  queen  of  the  earth,  thou  art  fallen  low;" 
Earth's  downtrod  millions  weep  and  fear ; 
So  kiss  me,  mother,  and  let  me  go. 

Under  the  burning  Southern  skies, 

Our  brothers  languish  in  heart-sick  pain, 
They  turn  to  us  with  their  pleading  eyes ; 

O  mother,  say,  shall  they  turn  in  vain  ? 
Their  ranks  are  thinning  from  sun  to  sun, 

Yet  bravely  they  hold  at  bay  the  foe  ; 
Shall  we  let  them  die  there,  one  by  one  ? 

So  kiss  me,  mother,  and  let  me  go. 

Can  you  selfishly  cling  to  your  household  joys, 

Refusing  this  smallest  tithe  to  yield, 
While  thousands  of  mothers  are  sending  boys 

Beloved  as  yours  to  the  battle-field  ? 
Can  you  see  my  country  call  in  vain, 

And  restrain  my  arm  from  the  needful  blow  ? 
Not  so,  though  your  heart  should  break  with  pain, 

You  will  kiss  me,  mother,  and  let  me  go. 


A  MOTHERS  ANSWER.  107 


A  MOTHER'S   ANSWER. 

"i   HAVE    KISSED    HIM,   AND    LET  HIM    GO." 

TTE  'S  my  own  boy,  and  tbis  is  my  plea : 

Perhaps  it  is  foolish  and  weak ; 
But  mothers  I  'm  sure  will  have  pity  on  me, 

And  some  word  will  tenderly  speak. 
The  light  of  my  home  —  my  tears  fall  like  rain  — 

Is  it  wonder  I  shrink  from  the  blow  — 
That  my  heart  is  crushed  by  its  weight  of  pain  ? 

But  I  've  kissed  him,  and  let  him  go. 

There  are  some,  I  know,  who  feel  a  strange  pride 

In  giving  their  country  their  all,  — 
Who  count  it  a  glory  that  boys  from  their  side, 

In  the  strife  are  ready  to  fall. 
But  I,  sitting  here,  have  no  pride  in  my  heart ; 

(God  forgive  me  that  this  should  be  so  !) 
For  the  boy  that  I  love  the  tears  still  start, 

Yet  I've  kissed  him,  and  let  him  go. 

Last  night,  with  soft  steps,  I  stole  to  his  bed 

As  oft  in  childhood  I  'd  done  ; 
On  his  pillow  I  bowed  my  poor,  stricken  head 

Till  out  of  the  east  rose  the  sun. 
His  dreams  were  of  me  ;  for  he  turned  in  his  sleep, 


108  A  MOTHERS  ANSWER. 

And  murmured  "  Dear  mother ! "  so  low, 
I  bit  my  pale  lips  lest  they  'd  cowardly  speak 
"  O,  my  darling,  1  can't  lei  you  go  !  " 

This  morning  I  blessed  him  ;  I  stifled  my  pain  ; 

I  bade  him  be  true  to  his  trust ; 
To  stand  by  the  flag  till  his  country  again 

Should  raise  its  proud  head  from  the  dust. 
I  knew  by  the  light  in  his  beautiful  eyes,  — 

By  his  face  with  true  courage  aglow,  — 
He  'd  fight  to  the  last.     I  choked  back  my  sighs, 

While  I  kissed  him,  and  let  him  go. 

But  oh,  sitting  here,  this  desolate  day, 

Still  there  comes  no  feeling  of  pride  ; 
But  One  knows  my  need,  and  to  Him  will  I  pray, 

I  can  trust  Him  whatever  betide. 
And  if  he  shall  fall,  —  (O,  faint  heart,  be  still !) 

I  know  He  will  soften  the  blow, 
And  I  yet  may  feel  a  patriot's  thrill 

That  I  kissed  him,  and  let  him  go. 


THE  BATTLE  SUMMER.  109 

THE  BATTLE   SUMMER. 

BY   HENRY   T.   TUCKERMAN. 

npHE  summer  wanes,  —  her  languid  sighs  now 
A  yield 

To  autumn's  cheering  air  ; 
The  teeming  orchard  and  the  waving  field 

Fruition's  glory  wear. 

More  clear  against  the  flushed  horizon  wall, 

Stand  forth  each  rock  and  tree  ; 
More  near  the  cricket's  note,  the  plover's  call, 

More  crystalline  the  sea. 

The  sunshine  chastened,  like  a  mother's  gaze, 

The  meadow's  vagrant  balm  ; 
The  purple  leaf  and  amber-tinted  maize 

Reprove  us  while  they  calm  ; 

For  on  the  landscape's  brightly  pensive  face, 

War's  angry  shadows  lie  ; 
His  ruddy  stains  upon  the  woods  we  trace, 

And  in  the  crimson  sky. 

No  more  we  bask  in  Earth's  contented  smile, 
But  sternly  muse  apart ; 


110  THE  BATTLE  SUMMER. 

Vainly  her  charms  the  patriot's  soul  beguile, 
Or  woo  the  orphan's  heart. 

Yon  keen-eyed  stars  with  mute  reproaches  brand 
The  lapse  from  faith  and  law,  — 

No  more  harmonious  emblems  of  a  land 
Ensphered  in  love  and  awe. 

As  cradled  in  the  noontide's  warm  embrace, 

And  bathed  in  dew  and  rain, 
The  herbage  freshened,  and  in  billowy  grace 

Wide  surged  the  ripening  grain  ; 

And  the  wild  rose  and  clover's  honeyed  cell 

Exhaled  their  peaceful  breath, 
On  the  soft  air  broke  Treason's  fiendish  yell,  — 

The  harbinger  of  death  ! 

Nor  to  the  camp  alone  his  summons  came, 

To  blast  the  glowing  day, 
But  heavenward  bore  upon  the  wings  of  flame 

Our  poet's  mate  away  ;  * 

And  set  his  seal  upon  the  statesman's  lips 

On  which  a  nation  hung  ;f 
And  rapt  the  noblest  life  in  cold  eclipse, 

By  woman  lived  or  snug.  J 

*  Mrs.  Longfellow.  t  favour.  %  Mrs.  Browning. 


A  RAINY  DAY  IN   CAMP.  \\\ 

How  shrinks  the  heart  from  Nature's  festal  noon, 

As  shrink  the  withered  leaves,  — 
In  the  wan-light  of  Sorrow's  harvest-moon 

To  glean  her  blighted  sheaves. 
Newport,  R.  /.,  September,  1861. 


A  RAINY  DAY  IN  CAMP. 

BY   MRS.    ROBERT   SHAW   HOWLAXD. 

TT  'S  a  cheerless,  lonesome  evening, 
When  the  soaking,  sodden  ground 
Will  not  echo  to  the  footfall 
Of  the  sentinel's  dull  round. 


God's  blue  star-spangled  banner 

To-night  is  not  unfurled, 
Surely  He  has  not  deserted 

This  weary,  warring  world. 

I  peer  into  the  darkness, 

And  the  crowding  fancies  come  ; 
The  night-wind,  blowing  Northward 

Carries  all  my  heart  toward  home. 

For  I  'listed  in  this  army 
Not  exactly  to  my  mind ; 


112  A  RAINY  DAY  IN   CAMP. 

But  my  country  called  for  helpers, 
And  I  could  n't  stay  behind. 

So,  I've  had  a  sight  of  drilling, 
And  have  roughed  it  many  ways, 

And  Death  has  nearly  had  me  ; 
Yet  I  think  the  service  pays. 

It  's  a  blessed  sort  of  feeling, 
Whether  you  live  or  die  ; 

You  helped  your  country  in  her  need, 
And  fought  right  loyally. 

But  I  can't  help  thinking,  sometimes, 
When  a  wet  day's  leisure  comes, 

That  I  hear  the  old  home  voices 
Talking  louder  than  the  drums, 

And  the  far,  familiar  faces 

Peep  in  at  the  tent  door, 
And  the  little  children's  footsteps 

Go  pit-pat  on  the  floor, 

I  can't  help  thinking,  somehow, 

Of  all  the  parson  reads 
About  that  other  Soldier-life 

Which  every  true  man  leads. 


A  RAINY  DAY  IN   CAMP.  113 

And  wife,  soft-hearted  creature, 

Seems  a-saying  in  my  ear, 
'  I  'd  rather  have  you  in  those  ranks 
Than  to  see  you  Brigadier." 


y 


I  call  myself  a  brave  one, 

But  in  my  heart  I  lie  ! 
For  my  Country  and  her  Honor 

I  am  fiercely  free  to  die. 

But  when  the  Lord  who  bought  me, 
Asks  for  my  service  here, 

To  "  fight  the  good  fight  "  faithfully, 
I  'm  skulking  in  the  rear. 

And  yet  I  know  this  Captain 

All  love  and  care  to  be  ; 
He  would  never  get  impatient 

With  a  raw  recruit  like  me. 

And  I  know  He  'd  not  forget  me, 
When  the  Day  of  Peace  appears ; 

I  should  share  with  Him  the  victory 
Of  all  his  volunteers. 

And  it 's  kind  of  cheerful,  thinking 
Beside  the  dull  tent  fire, 
8 


114  A  RAINY  DAY  IN   CAMP. 

About  that  big  promotion 

When  He  says,  "  Come  up  higher. 

And  though  it's  dismal  rainy, 
Even  now,  with  thoughts  of  Him, 

Camp-life  looks  extra  cheery, 
And  death  a  deal  less  grim. 

For  I  seem  to  see  Him  waiting 
Where  a  gathered  Heaven  greets 

A  great,  victorious  army, 

Surging  up  the  golden  streets  ; 

And  I  hear  Him  read  the  roll-call, 
And  my  heart  is  all  aflame, 

When  the  dear,  Recording  Angel 
Writes  down  my  happy  name  ! 

But  my  fire  is  dead  white  ashes, 
And  the  tent  is  chilling  cold, 

And  I  'm  playing  win  the  battle, 
When  I  've  never  been  enrolled. 


BY  TEE  BANKS  OF  TEE  CUMBERLAND.  115 
BY   THE  BANKS   OF   THE   CUMBERLAND. 

BY    S.    C.    MEECER. 

T>  Y  the  banks  of  the  Cumberland  echoes  the  roar 
Of  the  sentinel's  warning,  —  the  foe 's  on  the 
shore ! 
Our  war-drums  are  beaten,  our  bugles  are  blown, 
And  our  legions  advance  to  their  musical  tone. 

By  the  banks  of  the  Cumberland,  slippery  and  red, 
With  the  death-dew  of  battle,  and  strewn  with  the 

dead, 
Kentucky  has  routed  her  insolent  foe, 
And  victory's  star  gilds  the  night  of  our  woe. 

By  those  banks,  that  once  bloomed  like  an  Eden  of 

The  demon  of  treason  stalked  forth  to  destroy ; 
Our  rich  teeming  harvests  he  swept  in  his  wrath, 
And  the  blaze  of  our  dwellings  illumined  his  path. 

Like  an  eagle-plumed  arrow  our  Nemesis  comes, 
Shout,   soldiers !    sound,  bugles !    and   clamor,   O 

drums  ! 
Let  the  land  ring  aloud  in  the  wildness  of  joy, 
And  the  bonfires  blaze  brightly,  —  but  not  to  de- 
stroy. 


116  THE  FLOWER    OF  LIBERTY. 

For  the  God  of  the  Union  has  prospered  the  right, 
And  the  cohorts  of  treason  have  melted  in  flight 
Blow,  bugles !  roll,  river  !  and  tell  to  the  sea 
That  our  swords  shall  not    rest  'till  Kentucky  is 
free. 


W 


THE  FLOWER   OF   LIBERTY. 

BY   OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES. 

HAT  flower  is  this  that  greets  the  morn, 
Its  hues  from  heaven  so  freshly  born  ? 

With  burning  star  and  naming  band 

It  kindles  all  the  sunset  land  ;  — 

O,  tell  us  what  its  name  may  be  ! 

Is  this  the  Flower  of  Liberty  ? 
It  is  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 

In  savage  Nature's  far  abode 
Its  tender  seed  our  fathers  sowed ; 
The  storm-winds  rocked  its  swelling  bud, 
Its  opening  leaves  were  streaked  with  blood, 
Till,  lo  !  earth's  tyrants  shook  to  see 
The  full-blown  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 
Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 


THE  FLOWER    OF  LIBERTY.  \\l 

Behold  its  streaming  rays  unite 

One  mingling  flood  of  braided  light, — 

The  red  that  fires  the  Southern  rose, 

With  spotless  white  from  Northern  snows, 

And,  spangled  o'er  its  azure,  see 

The  sister  Stars  of  Liberty  ! 

Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty ! 

The  blades  of  heroes  fence  it  round  ; 

Where'er  it  springs  is  holy  ground  ; 

From  tower  and  dome  its  glories  spread  ; 

It  waves  where  lonely  sentries  tread ; 

It  makes  the  land  as  ocean  free, 

And  plants  an  empire  on  the  sea ! 

Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty ! 

Thy  sacred  leaves,  fair  Freedom's  flower, 
Shall  ever  float  on  dome  and  tower, 
To  all  their  heavenly  colors  true, 
In  blackening  frost  or  crimson  dew,  — 
And  God  love  us  as  we  love  thee, 
Thrice  holy  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 

Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 


118  "NEWS  FROM   THE    WAR: 


T 


"NEWS   FROM   THE   WAR." 

ANONYMOUS. 

WO  women  sit  at  a  farm-house  door, 


Busily  reading  the  news, 
While  softly  around  them  fair  twilight  sheds 
Her  tender  shadows  and  dews. 

Peace  smiles  in  the  cloudless  heaven  above  ; 

Peace  rests  on  the  landscape  fair ; 
And  peace,  like  a  holy  spirit  of  love, 

Broods  in  the  balmy  air. 

But  not  one  ray  of  peace  illumes 

Those  sad  and  wistful  eyes, 
Which  search  that  printed  record  o'er 

As  mariners  search  the  skies. 

Look  on  their  faces  :  one  like  a  rose 

Fresh  with  the  beauty  of  May ; 
The  other,  pale  as  a  waning  moon 

Seen  through  thin  clouds  of  gray. 

Yet,  though  one  is  young  and  the  other  old, 
With  the  same  soft  glory  they  shine ; 

For  they  're  tinted  with  tenderest  light  and  shades 
By  Love,  the  artist  divine. 


"NEWS  FROM    THE    WAR."  119 

Now,  fast  as  a  radiant  vision,  fades 

The  glow  of  the  western  skies  ; 
Yet  the  readers  read  on,  — unmindful  of  all 

Save  the  paper  before  their  eyes. 

Nothing  to  them  the  charms  of  that  hour,  — 

The  magic  of  meadow  and  hill ; 
For  spirits  bowed  down  with  a  weight  of  care, 

Are  blind  to  the  beautiful  still. 

Deeper  the  shadows  of  twilight  fall ; 

More  hushed  grows  the  dewy  air, 
When  suddenly  breaks  on  that  holy  calm 

A  quick,  wild  cry  of  despair. 

The  younger  glances  have  found  it  first,  — 

That  record  so  sad  and  so  brief; 
"  Mortally  wounded  !  "  —  two  dread  words  — 

Winged  arrows  of  pain  and  grief. 

"  Mortally  wounded  !  "  —  look  again  ; 

Alas  !  it  is  all  too  true ; 
Not  the  brave  alone,  but  the  fond  and  fair 

Are  mortally  wounded,  too. 

He,  on  the  battle-field  far  away ; 
They,  in  their  quiet  home,  — 


120  "NEWS  FROM    THE    WAR." 

The  wife  and  the  mother,  who  never  more 
Shall  see  their  loved  hero  come. 

The  grass  will  grow  where  the  warrior  fell, 
And  sweet  wild  flowers  may  bloom 

On  the  very  turf  once  blackened  and  burned 
By  the  fearful  fires  of  doom. 

But  the  smiling  summers,  that  come  and  go, 

Can  never,  never  heal 
The  bleeding  bosoms  which  felt  to-day 

Something  sharper  than  steel. 

"  Mortally  wounded  !  "  oh,  dread  War  ! 

Many  a  victim  is  thine, 
Save  those  who  hear  your  terrible  voice 

Go  thundering  along  the  line  ! 

If  we  give  proud  names  and  echoing  hymns, 
And  build  up  monuments  grand 

To  the  gallant  spirits  who  suffer  and  fall 
In  defence  of  their  native  land  ; 

Let  us  yield  a  tenderer  tribute  still,  — 
Sad  tears  and  a  pitying  sigh,  — 

To  the  uncrowned  martyrs  who  silently  sink, 
And  die  when  their  heroes  die. 


MARCH!  121 

MARCH! 

BY   BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

"\T7lTH  rushing  winds  and  gloomy  skies 

^  *     The  dark  and  stubborn  Winter  dies  ; 
Far-off",  unseen,  Spring  faintly  cries, 
Bidding  her  earliest  child  arise  : 

March  ! 

By  streams  still  held  in  icy  snare, 
On  Southern  hill-sides,  melting  bare, 
O'er  fields  that  motley  colors  wear, 
That  summons  fills  the  changeful  air  : 

March ! 

What  though  conflicting  seasons  make 
Thy  days  their  field,  they  woo  or  shake 
The  sleeping  lids  of  Life  awake, 
And  Hope  is  stronger  for  thy  sake  : 

March  ! 

Then  from  thy  mountains,  ribbed  with  snow, 
Once  more  thy  rousing  bugle  blow, 
And  East  and  West,  and  to  and  fro, 
Proclaim  thy  coming  to  the  foe  : 

March ! 


122  MARCH! 

Say  to  the  picket,  chilled  and  numb, 
Say  to  the  camp's  impatient  hum, 
Say  to  the  trumpet  and  the  drum : 
Lift  up  your  hearts,  I  come,  I  come  ! 

March ! 

Cry  to  the  waiting  hosts  that  stray 
On  sandy  sea-sides  far  away, 
By  marshy  isle  and  gleaming  bay, 
Where  Southern  March  is  Northern  May 

March  ! 

Announce  thyself  with  welcome  noise, 
Where  Glory's  victor-eagles  poise 
Above  the  proud,  heroic  boys 
Of  Iowa  and  Illinois  : 

March  ! 

Then  down  the  long  Potomac's  line 
Shout  like  a  storm  on  hills  of  pine, 
Till  ramrods  ring  and  bayonets  shine,  — 
"  Advance  !  the  Chieftain's  call  is  mine  : 

"  March  ! " 


ACROSS    THE  LINES.  123 

ACROSS   THE   LINES. 

BY    ETHEL   LYNN   BEERS. 

T  EFT  for  dead  ?     I  —  Charlie  Coleman, 

On  the  field  we  won  —  and  lost, 
Like  a  dog ;  the  ditch  my  death-bed, 

My  pillow  but  a  log  across. 
Helpless  hangs  my  arm  beside  me, 

Drooping  lies  my  aching  head  ; 
How  strange  it  sounded  when  that  soldier, 

Passing,  spoke  of  me  as  "  dead." 

Dead  ?  and  here  —  where  yonder  banner 

Flaunts  its  scanty  group  of  stars, 
And  that  rebel  emblem  binds  me 

Close  within  those  bloody  bars. 
Dead  ?  without  a  stone  to  tell  it, 

Nor  a  flower  above  my  breast ! 
Dead  ?  where  none  will  whisper  softly, 

"  Here  a  brave  man  lies  at  rest !  " 

Help  me,  Thou,  my  mother's  Helper,  — 

Jesus,  Thou  who  biding  here, 
Loved  like  me  an  earthly  mother, 

Be  thou  still  to  aid  me  near. 


124  ACROSS    TIIE  LINES. 

Give  me  strength  to  totter  yonder, 
Hold  me  up  till  o'er  me  shines 

The  flag  of  Union,  —  there  she  promised 
To  meet  me,  just  beyond  the  lines. 

Well  I  know  how  she  will  wander 

Where  a  woman's  foot  may  stray, 
Looking  with  those  eyes  so  tender 

Where  the  poor  boys  wounded  lay. 
How  her  hand  will  brinjj  them  water. 

For  her  own  boy  Charlie's  sake, 
And  when  dying  bid  them  whisper, 

"  I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take." 

Ah  !  I  stand  on  foot  but  feebly, 

And  the  blood  runs  very  fast, 
Yet  by  fence  and  bush  I  '11  stagger 

Till  the  rebel  lines  be  passed. 
"  Courage,  Charlie  !  twist  it  tighter,  — 

The  tourniquet  about  your  arm  ; 
Be  a  man  —  don't  faint  and  shiver 

When  the  lifetide  trickles  warm." 

Faint  and  weak,  —  still  coming,  mother, 
Walking  some,  but  creeping  more, 

Fearing  lest  the  watchful  sentry 
Stops  the  heart-beat,  —  slow  before. 


ACROSS    THE  LINES.  125 

Stay  —  with  fingers  ruddy  dabbled 
Loose  the  belt  your  waist  confines ; 

Write  upon  it  "  Charlie  Coleman  — 
Carry  him  across  the  lines." 

Trembling  letters,  —  but  some  stranger 

Chance  may  read  them  when  I  'm  gone, 
And  for  the  sake  of  love  and  pity 

Bear  my  lifeless  body  on. 
Coming  !  ah — what  means  this  darkness  — 

Night  too  soon  is  coming  on. 
Mother,  are  you  waiting  ?  —  "  Jesus, 

Tell  her  that  with  You  I  've  gone." 

Then  the  head  her  heart  had  pillowed, 

Drooping  laid  it  down  to  rest, 
As  calm  as  when  in  baby  slumber 

Its  locks  were  cradled  on  her  breast. 

Glowed  the  sunset  o'er  the  meadow, 

Lighting  up  the  gloomy  pines, 
Where  a  body  only  lingered  — 

Charlie's  soul  had  crossed  the  lines. 

A  passing  soldier  —  foe,  yet  human  — 
Stooped  to  read  the  words  of  blood  ; 

So  pitiful,  so  sadly  earnest ; 

And  bore  him  onward  through  the  wood. 


126  THE   CAPTAIN'S    WIFE. 

Beneath  the  white  flag  bore  him  safely. 

Now,  while  Indian  Summer  shines, 
A  mother's  tears  dew  springing  myrtle, 

O'er  Charlie's  grave  across  the  lines. 


THE   CAPTAIN'S  WIFE. 

BY   THEODORE   TILTON. 

"TTTE  gathered  roses,  Blanche  and  I,  for  little 

Madge  one  morning: 
"  Like  every  soldier's  wife,"  said  Blanche,  "  I  dread 

a  soldier's  fate." 
Her  voice  a  little  trembled  then,  as  under  some 

forewarning. 
A  soldier  galloped  up  the  lane,  and  halted  at  the 

gate. 

"  Which  house  is  Malcolm  Blake's  ?  "  he  cried  ;  "  a 
letter  for  his  sister  !  " 

And  when  I  thanked  him,  Blanche  inquired,  "  But 
none  for  me,  his  wife  ?  " 

The  soldier  played  with  Madge's  curls,  and,  stoop- 
ing over,  kissed  her : 

"Your  father  was  my  captain,  child! — I  loved 
him  as  my  life  !  " 


THE   CAPTAIN'S    WIFE.  127 

Then  suddenly  he  galloped  off  and  left  the   rest 

unspoken. 
I  burst  the  seal,  and  Blanche  exclaimed,  — "  What 

makes  you  tremble  so  ?  " 
What  answer  did  I  dare  to  speak  ?    How  ought  the 

news  be  broken  ? 
I  could  not  shield  her  from  the  stroke,  yet  tried  to 

ease  the  blow. 

"  A  battle  in  the  swamps,"  I  said ;  "  our  men  were 

brave,  but  lost  it." 
And,  pausing  there,  —  "  The  note,"  I  said,  "  is  not 

in  Malcolm's  hand." 
And  first  a  flush  flamed  through  her  face,  and  then 

a  shadow  crossed  it. 
"  Read  quick,  dear  May  !  —  read  all,  I  pray  —  and 

let  me  understand  !  " 

I  did  not  read  it  as  it  stood,  —  but  tempered  so  the 

phrases 
As  not  at  first  to  hint  the  worst,  —  held  back  the 

fatal  word, 
And  half  retold  his  gallant  charge,  his  shout,  his 

comrades'  praises  — 
Till  like  a  statue  carved  in  stonet  she  n^ithpr  spoke 

nor  stirred ! 


128  THE   CAPTAIN'S    WIFE. 

Oh,  never  }ret  a  woman's  heart  was  frozen  so  com- 
pletely ! 

So  unbaptized  with  helping  tears  !  —  so  passionless 
and  dumb  ! 

Spellbound  she  stood,  and  motionless,  —  till  little 
Madge  spoke  sweetly : 

"  Dear  mother,  is  the  battle  done  ?  and  will  my 
father  come  ?  " 

I  laid  my  finger  on  her  lips,  and  set  the  child  to 
playing. 

Poor  Blanche  !  the  winter  in  her  cheek  was  snowy 
like  her  name  ! 

What  could  she  do  but  kneel  and  pray,  —  and  lin- 
ger at  her  praying  ? 

O  Christ !  when  other  heroes  die,  moan  other  wives 
the  same  ? 

Must  other  women's  hearts  yet  break,  to  keep  the 
Cause  from  failing  ? 

God  pity  our  brave  lovers  then,  who  face  the  bat- 
tle's blaze ! 

And  pity  wives  in  widowhood  !  —  But  is  it  unavail- 
ing ? 

O  Lord  !  give  Freedom  first,  then  Peace  !  —  and 
unto  Thee  be  praise ! 


THE  DEFENDERS.  129 

THE  DEFENDERS. 

BY  THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 

/^UR  flag  on  the  land  and  our  flag  on  the  ocean, 

An  angel  of  peace  wheresoever  it  goes  ; 
Nobly  sustained  by  Columbia's  devotion, 
The  angel  of  death  it  shall  be  to  our  foes ! 
True  to  its  native  sky 
Still  shall  our  eagle  fly, 
Casting  his  sentinel  glances  afar ; 

Though  bearing  the  olive  branch, 

CO  » 

Still  in  his  talons  stanch 
Grasping  the  bolts  of  the  thunders  of  war ! 

Hark  to  the  sound  !  There  's  a  foe  on  our  border,  — 
A  foe  striding  on  to  the  gulf  of  his  doom  : 

O  O  i 

Freemen  are  rising  and  marching  in  order, 

D  O  » 

Leaving  the  plough  and  the  anvil  and  loom. 

"Rust  dims  the  harvest  sheen 

Of  scythe  and  of  sickle  keen  ; 
The  axe  sleeps  in  peace  by  the  tree  it  would  mar  ; 

Veteran  and  youth  are  out 

Swelling  the  battle  shout, 
Grasping  the  bolts  of  the  thunders  of  war  ! 

Our  brave  mountain  eagles  swoop  from  their  eyry, 
Our  little  panthers  leap  from  forest  and  plain 


130  THE  DEFENDERS. 

Out  of  the  West  flash  the  flames  of  the  prairie,  — 
Out  of  the  East  roll  the  waves  of  the  main  : 
Down  from  their  northern  shores, 
Swift  as  Niagara  pours, 
They  march,  and  their  tread  wakes  the  earth  with 
its  jar; 
Under  the  Stripes  and  Stars, 
Each  with  the  soul  of  Mars, 
Grasping  the  bolts  of  the  thunders  of  war  ! 

Spite  of  the  sword  or  assassin's  stiletto, 

While  throbs  a  heart  in  the  breast  of  the  brave, 
The  oak  of  the  North  or  the  Southern  palmetto 
Shall  shelter  no  foe  except  in  the  grave  ! 
While  the  gulf  billow  breaks 
Echoing  the  northern  lakes, 
And  ocean  replies  unto  ocean  afar, 
Yield  we  no  inch  of  land 
W7hile  there  'a  a  patriot  hand 
Grasping  the  bolts  of  the  thunders  of  war ! 
Rome,  July  4, 1861. 


CARTE  DE   VI SITE.  131 

CARTE  DE  VISITE. 

ANONYMOUS. 

Tjl  WAS  a  terrible  fight,"  the  soldier  said  ! 
"  Our  Colonel  was  one  of  the  first  to  fall, 
Shot  dead  on  the  field  by  a  rifle  ball,  — 
A  braver  heart  than  his  never  bled." 

A  group  for  the  painter's  art  were  they : 
The  soldier  with  scarred  and  sunburnt  face, 
A  fair-haired  girl,  full  of  youth  and  grace, 

And  her  aged  mother,  wrinkled  and  gray. 

These  three  in  porch,  where  the  sunlight  came 
Through  the  tangled  leaves  of  the  jasmine-vine, 
Spilling  itself  like  a  golden  wine, 

And  flecking  the  doorway  with  rings  of  flame. 

The  soldier  had  stopped  to  rest  by  the  way, 
For  the  air  was  sultry  with  summer-heat ; 
The  road  was  like  ashes  under  the  feet, 

And  a  weary  distance  before  him  lay. 

u  Yes,  a  terrible  fight :  our  Ensign  was  shot 
As  the  order  to  charge  was  given  the  men, 


132  CARTE  DE    VI SITE, 

When  one  from  the  ranks  seized  our  colors,  and 
then 
He,  too,  fell  dead  on  the  self-same  spot. 

"  A  handsome  boy  was  this  last :  his  hair 
Clustered  in  curls  round  his  noble  brow ; 
I  can  almost  fancy  I  see  him  now, 

With  the  scarlet  stain  on  his  face  so  fair." 

"  What  was  his  name  ?  —  have  you  never  heard  ?  — 
Where  was  he  from,  this  youth  who  fell  ? 
And  your  regiment,  stranger,  which  was  it  ?  tell !  " 

"  Our  regiment  ?     It  was  the  Twenty-third." 

The  color  fled  from  the  young  girl's  cheek, 
Leaving  it  as  white  as  the  face  of  the  dead ; 
The  mother  lifted  her  eyes,  and  said  : 

"  Pity  my  daughter  —  in  mercy  speak  !  " 

"  I  never  knew  aught  of  this  gallant  youth," 
The  soldier  answered  ;  not  even  his  name, 
Or  from  what  part  of  our  State  he  came  :  — 

As  God  is  above,  I  speak  the  truth ! 

"  But  when  we  buried  our  dead  that  night, 
I  took  from  his  breast  this  picture, —  see  ! 
It  is  as  like  him  as  like  can  be : 

Hold  it  this  way,  toward  the  light." 


LYON.  133 

One  glance,  and  a  look,  half-sad,  half-wild, 
Passed  over  her  face,  which  grew  more  pale, 
Then  a  passionate,  hopeless,  heart-broken  wail, 

And  the  mother  bent  low  o'er  the  prostrate  child. 


LYOST. 
0 1NG,  bird,  on  green  Missouri's  plain, 

The  saddest  song  of  sorrow  ; 
Drop  tears,  O  clouds,  in  gentlest  rain 

Ye  from  the  winds  can  borrow  ; 
Breathe  out,  ye  winds,  your  softest  sigh, 

AVeep  flowers,  in  dewy  splendor, 
For  him  who  knew  well  how  to  die, 
But  never  to  surrender. 

Up  rose  serene  the  August  sun, 

Upon  that  day  of  glory  ; 
Up  curled  from  musket  and  from  gun 

The  war-cloud  gray  and  hoary ; 
It  gathered  like  a  funeral  pall, 

Now  broken  and  now  blended, 
"Where  rang  the  buffalo's  angry  call, 

And  rank  with  rank  contended. 

Four  thousand  men,  as  brave  and  true 
As  e'er  went  forth  in  daring, 


134  LYON. 

Upon  the  foe  that  morning  threw 
The  strength  of  their  despairing. 

They  feared  not  death,  —  men  bless  the  field 
That  patriot  soldiers  die  on  ; 

Fair  Freedom's  cause  was  sword  and  shield,  ■ 
And  at  their  head  was  Lyon  ! 

Their  leader's  troubled  soul  looked  forth 

From  eyes  of  troubled  brightness ; 
Sad  soul  !  the  burden  of  the  North 

Had  pressed  out  all  its  lightness. 
He  gazed  upon  the  unequal  fight, 

His  ranks  all  rent  and  gory, 
And  felt  the  shadows  close  like  night 

Round  his  career  of  glory. 

"  General,  come,  lead  us  ! "  loud  the  cry 
From  a  brave  band  was  ringing.  — 
"  Lead  us,  and  we  will  stop,  or  die, 
That  battery's  awful  singing." 
He  spurred  to  where  his  heroes  stood, 

Twice  wounded,  —  no  wound  knowing, — 
The  fire  of  battle  in  his  blood 
And  on  his  forehead  glowing. 

Oh,  cursed  for  aye  that  traitor's  hand, 
And  cursed  that  aim  so  deadly, 


LYON.  135 

Which  smote  the  bravest  of  the  land, 

And  dyed  his  bosom  redly  ! 
Serene  he  lav  while  past  him  pressed 

The  battle's  furious  billow, 
As  calmly  as  a  babe  may  rest 

Upon  its  mother's  pillow. 

So  Lyon  died  !  and  well  may  flowers 

His  place  of  burial  cover, 
For  never  had  this  land  of  ours 

A  more  devoted  lover. 
Living,  his  country  was  his  bride, 

His  life  he  gave  her  dying,  — 
Life,  fortune,  love,  —  he  naught  denied 

To  her  and  to  her  si^hin^. 

Rest,  Patriot,  in  thy  hill-side  grave, 

Beside  her  form  who  bore  thee  ! 
Long  may  the  land  thou  died'st  to  save 

Her  bannered  stars  wave  o'er  thee  ! 
Upon  her  history's  brightest  page, 

And  on  Fame's  glowing  portal, 
She  '11  write  thy  grand,  heroic  page, 

And  grave  thy  name  immortal ! 

H.  P. 


136  THE  MUSIC   OF    UNION. 

KEEP   STEP  WITH   THE  MUSIC   OF  UNION. 

BY   WILLIAM    ROSS   WALLACE. 

TT^EEP  step  with  the  music  of  Union, 

The  music  our  ancestors  sung, 
When  States,  like  a  jubilant  chorus, 

To  beautiful  sisterhood  sprung  : 
Oh  thus  shall  their  great  Constitution, 

That  guards  all  the  homes  of  the  land, 
A  mountain  of  freedom  and  justice 
For  millions  eternally  stand. 

North  and  South,  East  and  West,  all  un 
furling 
One  banner  alone  o'er  the  sod  ; 
One  voice  from  America  swelling 
In  worship  of  Liberty's  God  ! 

Keep  step  with  the  music  of  Union  ! 

What  grandeur  its  Fla£  has  unrolled 
For  the  loyal,  a  star-lighted  Heaven  ; 

For  traitors,  a  storm  in  each  fold  ! 
The  glorious  shade  of  Mount  Vernon 

Still  points  to  each  patriot's  grave  ; 
Still  cries,  "  O'er  the  coming  long  ages 

That  banner  of  Bunker  Hill  wave  !" 
North  and  South,  etc. 


THE  MUSIC   OF   UNION.  137 

Keep  step  with  the  music  of  Union  ! 

The  forests  have  sunk  at  its  sound  ; 
The  pioneer's  brow  been  with  triumph 

And  labor's  broad  opulence  crowned. 
O  yet  shall  all  rude  giant  forces 

Of  Nature  be  chained  to  our  cars, 
And  States  that  have  madly  seceded 

Return  to  the  Stripes  and  the  Stars. 
North  and  South,  etc. 

Keep  step  with  the  music  of  Union  ! 

'T  is  thus  we  shall  nourish  the  light 
Our  fathers  lit  for  the  chained  nations 

That  darkle  in  Tyranny's  night. 
The  blood  of  the  whole  world  is  with  us, 

O'er  ocean  by  oligarchs  hurled  ; 
And  they  who  would  dare  to  attack  us 

Shall  sink  with  the  wrath  of  a  world. 
North  and  South,  etc. 

"  Keep  step  with  the  music  of  Union  ! " 

So  Lincoln,  the  glorious,  cries, 

(While  Scott,  the  majestic,  replies,) 
The  flames  of  the  patriot  flashing 

Like  lightnings  of  Heaven  from  his  eyes ; 
Red  wrath  on  all  Copperhead  villains 

Who  dare  trail  their  blasphemous  slime 


138  THE  MUSIC   OF    UNION. 

On  Loyalty's  thrice-sacred  flowers, 

That  Washington  sowed  in  our  clime. 
North  and  South,  etc. 

"  Keep  step  with  the  music  of  Union  ! " 

Hear  Webb,  the  great  ship-builder,  shout, 
While  from  his  grand  "  Dunderberg's  "  armor 
The  hammers  ring  choruses  out. 
"  Down,  down  with  the  South's  slaving  pirates 
Beneath  the  fierce  rams  of  the  Free  : 
Our  flag  of  Decatur  and  Porter 
Shall  yet  float  the  Flag  of  the  Sea  ! " 
North  and  South,  etc. 

"  Keep  step  with  the  music  of  Union  ! " 
America's  true  women  cry  ; 
They  know  'tis  the  sweetest  commandment 

God  ever  glowed  down  from  His  sky. 
O  still  by  home's  altars  they  sing  it, 

Our  mothers  and  daughters  divine  ; 
And  still  lead  their  sons  and  their  fathers 
To  Union's  blest  National  shrine. 
North  and  South,  etc. 

Keep  step  with  the  music  of  Union  ! 
All  traitors  shall  sink  at  its  sound, 
But  patriots  march  on  to  Heaven, 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM   OF  HOME.    139 

"With  soul-saving  harmony  crowned. 
Then,  cheer  for  the  Past  with  its  glory; 

For  the  resolute  Present  hurrah  ; 
And  shout  for  the  starry-browed  Future, 
With  Virtue  and  Freedom  and  Law. 

North   and  South,  East  and  West,  all  un- 
furling 
One  Banner  alone  o'er  the  sod  ; 
One  voice  from  America  swelling 
In  worship  of  Liberty's  God  ! 


THE   SOLDIER'S  DREAM   OF  HOME. 

BY    CAROLINE  A.    MASON. 

"YTOU  have  put  the  children  to  bed,  Alice,  - 

Maud  and  Willie  and  Rose  ;  — 
They  have  lisped  their  sweet  "  Our  Father," 

And  sunk  to  their  night's  repose. 
Did  they  think  of  me,  dear  Alice  ? 
Did  they  think  of  me,  and  say, 
"  God  bless  him,  and  God  bless  him  ! 
Dear  father,  far  awav  ?  " 


Oh,  my  very  heart  grows  sick,  Alice, 
I  long  so  to  behold 


140    THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM   OF  HOME. 

Rose,  with  her  pure,  white  forehead, 
And  Maud,  with  her  curls  of  gold  ; 

And  Willie,  so  gay  and  sprightly, 
So  merry  and  full  of  glee  ; 

Oh,  my  heart  yearns  to  enfold  ye, 
My  "  smiling  group  of  three  ! " 

I  can  bear  the  noisy  day,  Alice  ; 

The  camp  life,  gay  and  wild, 
Shuts  from  my  yearning  bosom 

The  thoughts  of  wife  and  child : 
But  when  the  night  is  round  me, 

And  under  its  strong  beams 
I  gather  my  cloak  about  me, 

I  dream  such  long,  sad  dreams ! 

I  think  of  the  pale  young  wife,  Alice, 

Who  looked  up  in  my  face 
When  the  drum  beat  at  evening, 

And  called  me  to  my  place. 
I  think  of  the  three  sweet  birdlings 

Left  in  the  dear  home-nest, 
And  my  soul  is  sick  with  longings 

That  will  not  be  at  rest. 

Oh,  when  will  the  war  be  over,  Alice ! 
Oh,  when  shall  I  behold 


THE  RESPONSE.  Ul 

Rose,  with  her  pure,  white  forehead, 
And  Maud,  with  her  curls  of  gold  ; 

And  Will,  so  gay  and  sprightly, 
So  merry  and  full  of  glee, 

And,  more  than  all,  the  dear  wife 
Who  bore  my  babes  to  me  ? 

God  guard  and  keep  you  all,  Alice  ; 

God  guard  and  keep  me,  too ; 
For  if  onlv  one  were  missing, 

What  would  the  other  do  ? 
Oh,  when  will  the  war  be  over, 

And  when  shall  I  behold 
Those  whom  I  love  so  dearly, 

Safe  in  the  dear  home-fold  ? 


THE  RESPONSE. 

["  HAVE  put  the  children  to  bed,  Harry, 

Rose  and  Willie  and  Maud ;  — 
They  have  sung  their  hymns  together, 
And  whispered  their  prayer  to  God. 
Then  Rose  said,  gently  smiling, 

"  Come,  Willie  and  Maud,  now  say, 
God  bless  the  dear,  sweet  father,  — 
Father  so  far  away  !  " 


142  THE  RESrONSE. 

And  such  a  glad  trust  arose,  Harry, 

In  this  sad  heart  of  mine, 
For  I  felt  that  God  would  keep  you 

Safe  in  His  hand  divine. 
And  I  kissed  their  pure,  young  foreheads, 

And  said,  "  He  is  over  all ! 
He  counteth  the  hair  of  your  heads,  darlings, 

And  noteth  the  sparrow's  fall." 

Then  I  sung  them  to  their  sleep,  Harry, 

With  hymns  all  trust  and  love, 
And  I  knew  that  God  was  listening 

From  His  gracious  throne  above. 
And  since  that  calm,  sweet  evening, 

I  have  felt  so  happy,  dear  ! 
And  so  have  the  children,  Harry  ; 

They  seem  to  know  no  fear. 


They  talk  of  your  coming  home,  Harry, 

As  something  sure  to  be  ; 
I  list  to  their  childish  pratings, 

Nor  care  to  check  their  glee. 
For  oh,  't  is  a  cause  so  noble, 

And  you  so  brave  and  true  ; 
And  God  protects  His  own,  Harry, 

And  surely  will  watch  o'er  you. 


BRING    THE  HERO  HOME.  143 

So  keep  up  a  brave  good  heart,  Harry  ! 

God  willing —  and  He  knows  best  — 
We  '11  welcome  you,  safe  and  happy, 

Back  to  the  dear  home-nest. 
And  Maud  and  Rose  and  Willie 

Shall  yet,  with  a  moistened  eye, 
Give  thanks  to  the  dear,  good  Father, 

While  you  stand  tearful  by. 


BRING   THE  HERO   HOME. 

IN   MEMORY   OF   GEN.    E.    D.    BAKER. 

TTE  fell  in  the  front  of  battle, 

Where  the  brave  would  wish  to  die, 
Rather  than  bow  to  the  traitor, 

Or  humble  our  banner  and  fly. 

Giving  for  all  that  was  jnven 

Powder  and  lead  and  shell  ; 
Front  to  front  with  their  bravest, 

Undaunted,  unconquered,  he  fell. 

To  right  and  left  and  before  him, 
A  myriad  host  in  power, 
Earth  torn  with  thundering  iron, 
Air  rent  with  a  leaden  shower ; 


144  BRING    THE  HERO  HOME. 

A  river  unbridged  behind  him, 
Rolling  its  angry  tide,  — 
O'erpowered,  betrayed,  and  deserted, 
A  hero  the  patriot  died. 

Died  like  the  world's  first  martyr 

By  the  rebel  hand  of  Cain, 
A  victim  on  Blunder's  red  altar, 

Through  others'  incompetence  slain. 

A  sacrifice  offered  by  Folly 

That  tampered  with  precious  life, 
By  plunging  his  gallant  legion 

la  cruel  and  purposeless  strife. 

He  would  not  flee  from  the  foeman, 
Nor  shame  the  heroes  he  led ; 

Rather  than  life  by  surrender, 
Death  with  his  own  brave  dead. 
Facing  the  rifle  and  cannon, 
Sulphur  and  sabre  and  frown, 

True  to  his  country  and  honor, 

Our  gallant  u  Gray  Eagle  "  went  down. 

Gather  the  dust  of  the  mighty, 
Sleeping  so  quietly  there, 
Wash  out  the  blotches  of  crimson 
Clotting  his  silvery  hair. 


BRING    THE  HERO  HOME.  145 

Woe  to  the  traitors  whose  bullets 
Have  channelled  a  path  for  the  stain,  — 
That  eloquent  tongue  stilled  forever, 
And  shattered  that  wonderful  brain. 

Silenced  and  hushed  and  frozen, 

Tongue  and  lip  and  word, 
Brave  as  the  spirit  of  Freedom, 

And  true  as  his  flashing  sword  ; 

Stilled  the  heart  that  quailed  not 

Before  them  in  forum  or  field, 
That  alone  to  Death  would  surrender, 

And  only  to  Destiny  yield. 

Take  from  the  field  where  he  battled, 

Up  from  the  field  where  he  bled, 
His  dust ;  let  no  soil  of  the  traitor 

Give  grave  to  our  glorious  dead. 

For  Liberty  dwelt  in  his  spirit  ; 

And  freemen  should  fashion  his  grave 
Beneath  free  humanity's  banner, 

And  not  the  cursed  flag  of  the  slave. 

So  hither,  his  relics  bring  hither, 
And  let  him  pass  gently  to  rest, 
Like  Mars  when  his  night  march  is  ended  — 
Within  his  loved  land  of  the  West  j 
10 


146  A  BATTLE  HYMN. 

"Where  Poesy,  chanting  in  sorrow, 
Shall  number  the  glories  he  won, 
And  Eloquence,  silent  and  weeping, 
Grieves  for  her  favorite  son. 

Where  comes  the  voice  of  the  AVest  wind, 

From  the  unmanacled  sea, 
Free  as  his  chain-spurning  spirit, 

Let  his  last  dwelling-place  be. 

Heaven's  bright  sentinels  guarding, 

Types  of  his  soul's  clear  flame, 
His  requiem  chanted  by  Ocean, 

Undying  and  grand  as  his  fame. 

San  Francisco,  Cat  F.   S. 


A  BATTLE   HYMN. 

BY    GEORGE   IT.    BOKER. 

f^i  OD,  to  Thee  we  humbly  bow, 

With  hand  unarmed  and  naked  brow ; 
Musket,  lance,  and  sheathed  sword 
At  Thy  feet  we  lay,  O  Lord  ! 
Gone  is  all  the  soldier's  boast 
In  the  valor  of  the  host : 
Kneeling  here,  we  do  our  most. 


A   BATTLE  HYMN.  147 

Of  ourselves  we  nothing  know  : 
Thou,  and  Thou  alone  canst  show, 
By  the  favor  of  Thy  hand, 
Who  has  drawn  the  guilty  brand. 
If  our  foemen  have  the  right, 
Show  Thy  judgment  in  our  sight 
Through  the  fortunes  of  the  fi^ht ! 

If  our  cause  be  pure  and  just, 
Nerve  our  courage  with  Thy  trust : 
Scatter,  in  Thy  bitter  wrath, 
All  who  cross  the  nation's  path  : 
May  the  baffled  traitors  fly, 
As  the  vapors  from  the  sky 
When  Thy  raging  winds  are  high ! 

God  of  mercy,  some  must  fall 
In  Thy  holy  cause.     Not  all 
Hope  to  sing  the  victor's  lav, 
When  the  sword  is  laid  away. 
Brief  will  be  the  prayers  then  said ; 
Falling  at  Thy  altar  dead, 
Take  the  sacrifice,  instead. 

Now,  O  God  !  once  more  we  rise, 
Marching  on  beneath  Thy  eyes; 
And  we  draw  the  sacred  sword 


148  OUR    WOUNDED. 

In  Thy  name  and  at  Thy  word. 
May  our  spirits  clearly  see 
Thee,  through  all  that  is  to  be, 
In  defeat  or  victory. 


A 


OUR   WOUNDED. 

BY   C.    K.    TUCKERMAN. 

S  loftier  rise  the  ocean's  heaving  crests, 


Ere  they  sink,  tempest-driven,  on  the  strand  ; 
So  do  these  hearts  and  freedom-beating  breasts, 
Sublimed  by  suffering,  fall  upon  our  land. 

Wounded  !    O  sweet-lipped  word  !  for  on  the  page 
Of  this  strange  history,  all  these  scars  shall  be 

The  hieroglyphics  of  a  valiant  age, 

Deep  writ  in  Freedom's  blood-red  mystery. 

What  though  your  fate  sharp  agony  reveals ! 

What  though  the  mark  of  brothers'  blows   you 
bear  ! 
The  breath  of  your  oppression  upward  steals, 

Like  incense  from  crushed  spices  into  air. 

Freedom  lies  listening,  nor  as  yet  averts 

The  battle  horrors  of  these  months'  slow  length ; 


"AT  EVENING    TIME;'    ETC.  149 

But  as  she  listens,  silently  she  girts 

More  elose,  more  firm,  the  armor  of  her  strength. 

Then  deem  them  not  as  lost,  these  bitter  days, 
Nor  those  which  yet  in  anguish  must  be  spent 

Far   from    loved   skies   and   home's  peace-moving 
ways, 
For  these  are  not  the  losses  you  lament. 

It  is  the  glory  that  your  country  bore 

Which  you  would  rescue  from  a  living  grave  ; 

It  is  the  unity  that  once  she  wore 

Which  your  true  hearts  are  yearning  still  to  save. 

Despair  not :  it  is  written  !     Though  the  eye, 
Red  with  its  watching,  can  no  future  scan, 

The  glow  of  triumph  yet  shall  flush  the  sky, 
And  God  redeem  the  ruin  made  by  man. 


"AT  EVENING  TIME  IT   SHALL  BE  LIGHT. 

/^VUR  Nation's  Sun  was  clouded  o'er 
When  erst  he  rose  at  morn  ; 

But  soon  those  beams  were  hid  no  more, 
Afar  the  clouds  were  borne. 


150  TRUMPET  SONG. 

We  for  awhile  enjoyed  his  rays, 
In  all  their  noontide  power ; 

Now  once  again  is  hid  that  blaze 
In  this  our  darkest  hour. 

But  Freedom's  sky  shall  yet  be  bright : 

"  At  Evening  time  it  shall  be  light." 

©  o 

The  Sun  of  Liberty  shall  ne'er 

In  clouds  and  darkness  set ; 
Her  sons  are  brave,  —  they  know  no  fear,  — 

And  God  is  with  us  yet. 
We  know  whatever  may  betide, 

Be  it  for  good  or  ill, 
It  is  in  mercy  He  doth  chide, 

His  arm  is  pow'rful  still. 
Then  strike  !  for  God  and  for  the  Bight : 


"  At  Evening  time  it  shall  be  light." 
©  © 


C.  F. 


TRUMPET   SONG. 

BY   OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES. 

1HE  battle-drum's  loud  rattle  is  rending  the  air, 
The  troopers  all  are  mounted,  their  sabres  are 
bare  ; 


TRUMPET  SONG.  151 

The  guns  are  unlimbered,  the  bayonets  shine, 
Hark !  hark  !  't  is  the  trumpet-call !  wheel  into  line  ! 
Ta  ra  !  ta  ta  ta ! 
Trum  trum,  tra  ra  ra  ra  ! 
Beat  drums  and  blow  trumpets  ! 
Hurrah,  boys,  hurrah ! 

March  onward,  soldiers,  onward,  the  strife  is  begun, 
Loud  bellowing  rolls  the  boom  of  the  black-throated 

gun; 
The  rifles  are  cracking,  the  torn  banners  toss, 
The  sabres  are  clashing,  the  bayonets  cross. 
Ta  ra,  etc. 

Down  with  the  leaguing  liars,  the  traitors  to  their 

trust, 
Who   trampled   the   fair   charter  of  Freedom  in 

dust ! 
They   falter  —  they   waver  —  they   scatter  —  they 

run  — 
The  field  is  our  own,  and  the  battle  is  won  ! 
Ta  ra,  etc. 

God   save   our   mighty   people   and    prosper    our 

cause ! 
We  're  fighting  for  our  nation,  our  land,  and  our 

laws ! 


152  PUT  IT   THROUGH. 

Though  tyrants  may  hate  us,  their  threats  we  defy, 
And  drum-beat  and  trumpet  shall  peal  our  reply  ! 
Ta  ra  !  ta  ta  ta  ! 
Beat  drums  and  blow  trumpets ! 
Trum  trum,  tra  ra  ra  ra ! 
Hurrah,  boys,  hurrah  ! 


PUT   IT  THROUGH. 

i^OME  Freemen  of  the  land, 

Come  meet  the  last  demand  ! 
Here  's  a  piece  of  work  in  hand : 
Put  it  through ! 


Here 's  a  log  across  the  way, 
We  have  stumbled  on  all  day, 
Here  *s  a  ploughshare  in  the  clay  : 
Put  it  through  ! 

Here  's  a  country  that 's  half  free, 
And  it  waits  for  you  and  me, 
To  say  what  it's  fate  shall  be  : 
Put  it  through  ! 


PUT  IT   THROUGH.  153 

While  one  traitor  thought  remains, 
"While  one  spot  its  banner  stains, 
One  link  of  all  its  chains  : 
Put  it  through  ! 

Hear  our  brothers  in  the  field, 
Steel  your  swords  as  their's  are  steeled, 
Learn  to  wield  the  arms  they  wield  : 
Put  it  through  ! 

Lock  the  shop  and  lock  the  store, 
Chalk  this  upon  the  door, 
"  We  've  enlisted  for  the  War !  " 
Put  it  through ! 

For  the  Birthrights  yet  unsold, 
For  the  History  yet  untold, 
For  the  Future  yet  unrolled, 
Put  it  through ! 

Lest  our  children  point  with  shame, 
On  the  father's  dastard  fame, 
Who  gave  up  a  nation's  name, 
Put  it  through  ! 

Father  Abram,  hear  us  cry, 
"  We  can  follow,  we  can  die." 


154  ROLL    CALL, 

Lead  your  children  then,  and  tiy 
Put  it  through  ! 

Here  's  a  work  of  God  half  done, 
Here  's  the  kingdom  of  His  Son, 
With  its  triumphs  just  begun  : 
Put  it  through  ! 

Father  Abram,  that  man  thrives 
Who  with  every  weapon  strives ; 
Use  our  twenty  million  lives  ! 
Put  it  through  ! 

'T  is  to  you  the  Trust  is  given  ! 
"Tis  by  you  the  Bolt  is  driven  ! 
By  the  very  God  of  Heaven, 
Drive  it  through ! 


ROLL   CALL. 

BY   N.    G.    SHEPHERD. 


/CORPORAL  Green  !  "  the  orderly  cried  ; 
"  Here  !  "  was  the  answer,  loud  and  clear, 
From  the  lips  of  a  soldier  who  stood  near  ; 
And  "  Here  ! "  was  the  word  the  next  replied. 


ROLL    CALL.  155 

"  Cyrus  Drew  !  " —  then  a  silence  fell,  — 
This  time  no  answer  followed  the  call; 
Only  his  rear-man  had  seen  him  fall, 

Killed  or  wounded  he  could  not  tell. 

There  they  stood  in  the  failing  light, 

These  men  of  battle,  with  grave,  dark  looks, 
As  plain  to  be  read  as  open  books  ; 

While  slowly  gathered  the  shade  of  night. 

The  fern  on  the  hill-sides  were  splashed  with  blood, 
And  down  in  the  corn,  where  the  poppies  grew, 
Wore  redder  stains  than  the  poppies  knew ; 

And  crimson-dyed  as  the  river's  flood. 

For  the  foe  had  crossed  from  the  other  side 
That  day,  in  the  face  of  a  murderous  fire 
That  swept  them  down  in  its  terrible  ire  ; 

And  their  life-blood  went  to  color  the  tide. 

l'  Herbert  Cline  ! "  —  At  the  call  there  came 
Two  stalwart  soldiers  into  the  line, 
Bearing  between  them  this  Herbert  Cline, 

Wounded  and  bleeding,  to  answer  his  name. 


"  Ezra  Kerr  !  "  — and  a  voice  answered  u  Here 
"  Hiram  Kerr !  "  but  no  man  replied  : 


» 


156  "PICCIOLAr 

They  were  brothers,  these  two;  the  sad  wind 
sighed, 
And  a  shudder  crept  through  the  corn-field  near. 

"  Ephraim  Deane  !  "  —  then  a  soldier  spoke  : 
"  Deane  carried  our  regiment's  colors,"  he  said, 
"  When  our  ensign  was  shot ;  I  left  him  dead, 

Just  after  the  enemy  wavered  and  broke. 

"  Close  to  the  roadside  his  body  lies ; 

I  paused  a  moment  and  gave  him  to  drink  ; 

He  murmured  his  mother's  name,  I  think ; 
And  Death  came  with  it  and  closed  his  eyes." 

'T  was  a  victory  —  yes  :  but  it  cost  us  dear  ; 
For  that  company's  roll,  when  called  at  night, 
Of  a  hundred  men  who  went  into  the  light, 

Numbered  but  twenty  that  answered  "Here  !  " 


'TICCIOLA.'1 


I"T  was  a  sergeant  old  and  gray, 

Well  singed  and  bronzed  from  siege  and  pillage, 
Went  tramping  in  an  army's  wake, 
Along  the  turnpike  of  the  village. 


"PICCIOLA."  157 

For  days  and  nights  the  winding  host 

Had  through  the  little  place  been  marching, 

And  ever  loud  the  rustics  cheered, 

Till  ev'ry  throat  was  hoarse  and  parching. 

The  squire  and  farmer,  maid  and  dame, 

All  took  the  sight's  electric  stirring, 
And  hats  were  waved,  and  staves  were  sung, 

And  'kerchiefs  white  were  countless  whirling. 

They  only  saw  a  gallant  show 

Of  heroes  stalwart  under  banners, 
And  in  the  fierce  heroic  glow 

'T  was  theirs  to  yield  but  wild  hosannahs. 

The  sergeant  heard  the  shrill  hurrahs, 
Where  he  behind  in  step  was  keeping  ; 

But  glancing  down  beside  the  road 
He  saw  a  little  maid  sit  weeping. 

"  And  how  is  this  ?  "  he  gruffly  said, 

A  moment  pausing  to  regard  her  ; 
"  Why  weepest  thou,  my  little  chit  ?  " 

And  then  she  only  cried  the  harder. 

14  And  how  is  this,  my  little  chit  ?  " 

The  sturdy  trooper  straight  repeated,  — 


158  "PICCIOLA." 

"  When  all  the  village  cheers  us  on, 
That  you,  in  tears,  apart  are  seated  V 

"  We  march  two  hundred  thousand  strong  ! 

And  that 's  a  sight,  iny  baby  beauty, 
To  quicken  silence  into  song, 

And  glorify  the  soldier's  duty." 

;<  It 's  very,  very  grand,  I  know," 
The  little  maid  gave  soft  replying ; 

"  And  father,  mother,  brother,  too, 
All  say  '  hurrah  '  while  I  am  crying. 

"  But  think  —  0  Mr.  Soldier,  think, 

How  many  little  sisters'  brothers 
Are  going  all  away  to  fight, 

Who  may  be  killed,  as  well  as  others  !  " 

"  Why,  bless  thee,  child,"  the  sergeant  said, 
His  brawny  hand  her  curls  caressing, 

"  'T  is  left  for  little  ones  like  you 

To  find  that  war  's  not  all  a  blessing." 

And  "  bless  thee  !  "  once  again  he  cried  ; 

Then  cleared  hia  throat  and  looked  indignant, 
And  inarched  away  with  wrinkled  brow 

To  stop  the  straggling  tear  benignant. 


MOVE   ON  TEE   COLUMNS.  159 

And  still  the  ringing  shouts  went  up 

From  doorway,  thatch,  and  fields  of  tillage ; 

The  pall  behind  the  standard  seen 
By  one  alone,  of  all  the  village. 

The  oak  and  cedar  bend  and  writhe 

When  roars  the  wind  through  gap  and  braken  ; 
But  't  is  the  tenderest  reed  of  all 

That  trembles  first  when  earth  is  shaken. 


MOVE  ON  THE   COLUMNS. 

BY   W.   D.    GALLAGHER. 
I. 

1X/TOVE  on  the  columns  !     Why  delay  ? 
Our  soldiers  sicken  in  their  camps  : 
The  summer  heats,  the  autumn  damps, 

Have  sapp'd  their  vigor,  day  by  day ; 
And  now  the  winter  comes  apace, 
With  death-chills  in  its  cold  embrace, 

More  fatal  than  the  battle  fray. 

ii. 

Move  on  the  columns  !  Hesitate 
No  longer  what  to  plan  or  do  : 
Our  cause  is  good  —  our  men  are  true  — 


160  MOVE   ON   TEE    COLUMNS. 

This  fight  is  for  the  Flag,  the  State, 
The  Union,  and  the  hopes  of  man  : 
And  Right  will  end  what  Wrong  began, 

For  God  the  Right  will  vindicate. 


in. 

Move  on  the  columns  !     If  the  land 

Is  lock'd  by  winter,  take  the  sea ; 

No  possible  barrier  can  be 
So  fatal  to  a  rightful  stand, 

As  wavering  purpose  when  at  bay. 

This  way  or  that  —  "  at  once  !  to-day  ! n 
Were  worth  ten  thousand  men  at  hand. 

IV. 

Move  on  the  columns  !     With  the  sweep 

Of  eagles  let  them  strike  the  foe  ; 

The  hurricane  lays  the  forest  low  : 
Momentum  wings  the  daring  leap 

That  clears  the  chasm  :  the  lightning  stroke 

Shivers  the  wind-defying  oak  ; 
The  earthquake  rocks  the  eternal  steep. 


v. 

Move  on  the  columns  !     Why  have  sprung 
Our  myriad  hosts  from  hill  and  plain  ? 
Leaving  the  sickle  in  the  grain,  — 


MOVE   ON   THE   COLUMNS.  161 

Closing  the  harvest  hymn  half  sung,  — 
Half  filled  the  granary  and  the  mow,  — 
Unturn'd  the  sod,  untouch'd  the  plough,  — 

Scythes  rusting  where  they  last  were  swung. 

VI. 

Move  on  the  columns  !     They  are  here 

To  found  anew  a  people's  faith, 

To  save  from  treason  and  from  death 
A  nation  which  they  all  revere ; 

And  on  each  manly  brow  is  set 

A  purpose  such  as  never  yet 
Was  thwarted  when,  as  now,  sincere. 

VII. 

Move  on  the  columns  !     Earth  contains 
No  guerdon  for  the  good  and  free 
Like  that  which  bless'd  our  Liberty : 

And  while  its  banner  still  remains 
The  symbol  of  united  power, 
Nor  man  nor  fiend  can  tell  the  hour 

In  which  its  star-lit  glory  wanes. 


VIII. 

Move  on  the  columns  strong  and  bright ! 
Strike  down  the  sacrilegious  hands 
That  clutch  and  wield  the  battle  brands 
11 


32  LANDER. 

Which  menace  with  their  Wrong  our  Rights 
Words  now  are  wasted  —  glittering  steel 
Alone  can  make  the  last  appeal : 

They  've  wilPd  it  so  ■ —  and  we  must  fight. 

IX. 

Move  on  the  columns  !     If  they  go 
By  ways  they  had  not  thought  to  take, 
To  fields  we  had  not  meant  to  make ; 

Or  if  they  bring  unthought-of  woe, 
Let  that  which  woke  the  fiery  wrath 
Fall,  scorn'd  and  blackening  in  its  path. 

Not  man,  but  God,  may  stay  the  blow. 
Move  on  the  columns  ! 


LANDER. 

BY   THOMAS   BAILEY   ALDRICH. 

i^LOSE  his  bleak  eyes  —  they  shall  no  more 

Flash  victory  where  the  cannon  roar ; 
And  lay  the  battered  sabre  at  his  side, 
(His  to  the  last,  for  so  he  would  have  died  !) 
Though  he  no  more  may  pluck  from  out  its  sheath 
The  sinewy  lightning  that  dealt  traitors  death. 
Lead  the  worn  war-horse  by  the  plumed  bier  — 
Even  his  horse,  now  he  is  dead,  is  dear  ! 


LANDER.  163 

Take  him,  New  England,  now  his  work  is  done. 

He  fought  the  good  fight  valiantly  —  and  won. 

Speak  of  his  daring.     This  man  held  his  blood 

Cheaper  than  water  for  the  nation's  good. 

Rich  Mountain,  Fairfax,  Romney,  —  he  was  there. 

Speak  of  him  gently,  of  his  mien,  his  air; 

How  true  he  was,  how  his  strong  heart  could  bend 

With  sorrow,  like  a  woman's,  for  a  friend : 

Intolerant  of  every  mean  desire : 

Ice  where  he  liked  not ;  where  he  loved,  all  fire. 

Take  him,  New  England,  gently.     Other  days, 
Peaceful  and  prosperous,  shall  give  him  praise. 
How  will  our  children's  children  breathe  his  name, 
Bright  on  the  shadowy  muster-roll  of  fame ! 
Take  him,  New  England,  gently  ;  you  can  fold 
No  purer  patriot  in  your  soft  brown  mould. 

So,  on  New  England's  bosom,  let  him  lie, 
Sleeping  awhile  —  as  if  the  Good  could  die  1 


1C.4  GENTLY!    GENTLY! 

GENTLY!    GENTLY! 

BY.   EUGENE    II.    MUNDAY. 

Among  the  wounded  was  a  young  soldier  whose  limbs  were 
fearfully  shattered.  Though  evidently  in  intense  pain,  he  uttered 
no  cry  ;  but,  as  the  carriers  raised  the  "  stretcher  "  he  was  on, 
he  whispered,  "  Gently  !  gently  !  " 

rpHOUGII  he  neither  sighs  nor  groans, 

Death  is  busy  with  his  bones  : 
Bear  him  o'er  the  jutting  stones 

Gently  !  gently ! 

Sisters,  faithful  to  your  vow, 
Swathe  his  limbs  and  eool  his  brow : 
Peace  !  his  soul  is  passing  now 

Gently  !  gently  ! 

He  has  fallen  in  the  strife  ! 
Tell  it  to  his  widowed  wife, 
And  to  her  who  gave  him  life, 

Gently  !  gently  ! 

Loudly  praise  the  brave  who  gem 
With  their  blood  our  diadem  : 
And  their  fault6  —  oh,  speak  of  them 
Gently  !  gently  ! 


NOT   YET.  165 

NOT   YET. 

BY   WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT. 

r\  COUNTRY,  marvel  of  the  earth  ! 

O  realm  to  sudden  greatness  srown  ! 
The  age  that  gloried  in  thy  birth, 

Shall  it  behold  thee  overthrown  ? 
Shall  traitors  lay  that  greatness  low  ? 
No,  Land  of  Hope  and  Blessing,  No ! 

And  we  who  wear  thy  glorious  name, 
Shall  we,  like  eravens,  stand  apart, 

When  those  whom  thou  hast  trusted  aim 
The  death-blow  at  thy  generous  heart  ? 

Forth  goes  the  battle-cry,  and  lo  ! 

Hosts  rise  in  harness,  shouting,  No ! 

And  they  who  founded,  in  our  land, 
The  power  that  rules  from  sea  to  sea, 

Bled  they  in  vain,  or  vainly  planned 
To  leave  their  country  great  and  free  ? 

Their  sleeping  ashes,  from  below, 

Send  up  the  thrilling  murmur,  No ! 

Knit  they  the  gentle  ties  which  long 
These  sister  States  were  proud  to  wear, 


166  NOT    YET. 

And  forced  the  kindlv  links  so  strong 

For  idle  hands  in  sport  to  tear,  — 
For  scornful  hands  aside  to  throw  ? 
No,  by  our  fathers'  memory,  No  ! 

Our  humming  marts,  our  iron  ways, 

Our  wind-tossed  woods  on  mountain  crest, 

The  hoarse  Atlantic,  with  his  bays, 
The  calm,  broad  Ocean  of  the  West, 

And  Mississippi's  torrent  flow, 

And  loud  Niagara,  answer,  No  ! 

Not  yet  the  hour  is  nigh,  when  they 
Who  deep  in  Eld's  dim  twilight  sit, 

Earth's  ancient  kings,  shall  rise  and  say, 
M  Proud  country,  welcome  to  the  pit ! 

So  soon  art  thou,  like  us,  brought  low  V" 

No,  sullen  groups  of  shadows,  No  ! 

For  now,  behold  the  arm  that  gave 
The  victory  in  our  fathers'  day, 

Strong,  as  of  old,  to  guard  and  save,  — 
That  mighty  arm  which  none  can  stay, — 

On  clouds  above  and  fields  below, 

Writes,  in  men's  sight,  the  answer,  No  ! 


MARCH  ALONG.  167 

MARCH  ALONG. 

BY    GEORGE   H.    BOKER. 

O  OLDIERS  are  we  from  the  mountain  and  valley, 

Soldiers  are  we  from  the  hill  and  the  plain ; 
Under  the  flag  of  our  fathers  we  rally ; 
Death,  for  its  sake,  is  but  living  again. 

Then  march  along,  gay  and  strong, 
March  to  battle  with  a  song  ! 
March,  march  along ! 

We  have  a  history  told  of  our  nation, 

We  have  a  name  that  must  never  go  down  ; 

Heroes  achieved  it  through  toil  and  privation  ; 
Bear  it  on,  bright  with  its  ancient  renown  ! 
Then  march  along,  etc. 

Who  that  shall  dare  say  the  flag  waving  o'er  us, 
Which  floated  in  glory  from  Texas  to  Maine, 

Must  fall,  where  our  ancestors  bore  it  before  us, 
Writes  his  own  fate  on  the  roll  of  the  slain. 
Then  march  alonjr,  etc. 

Look  at  it,  traitors,  and  blush  to  behold  it ! 
Quail  as  it  flashes  its  stars  in  the  sun  ! 


168  MARCH  ALONG. 

Think  you  a  Land  in  the  nation  will  fold  it, 
While  there  's  a  hand  that  can  level  a  gun  ? 
Then  march  along,  etc. 

Carry  it  onward  till  victory  earn  it 

The  rights  it  once  owned  in  the  land  of  the  free 
Then,  in  God's  name,  in  our  fury  we'll  turn  it 

Full  on  the  treachery  over  the  sea  ! 
Then  march  along,  etc. 

England  shall  feel  what  a  vengeance  the  liar 
Stores  in  the  bosom  he  aims  to  deceive  ; 

England  shall  feel  how  God's  truth  can  inspire ; 
England  shall  feel  it,  but  only  to  grieve. 
Then  march  along,  etc. 

Peace  shall  unite  us  again  and  forever, 

Though  thousands  lie  cold  in  the  graves  of  these 
wars ; 
Those  who  survive  them  shall  never  prove,  never, 
False  to  the  flag  of  the  stripes  and  the  stars  ! 
Then  march  along,  gay  and  strong, 
March  to  the  battle  with  a  sonjr  ! 
March,  march  alonir ! 


THE    UNION— RIGHT   OR    WRONG.     169 
THE  UNION— RIGHT   OR   WRONG. 

BY   GEORGE.    P.   MORRIS. 
I. 

TN  Freedom's  name  our  blades  we  draw, 

She  arms  us  for  the  fi^ht ! 
For  country,  government,  and  law, 

For  Liberty  and  Right. 
The  Union  must  —  shall  be  preserved, 

Our  flag  still  o'er  us  fly  ! 
That  cause  our  hearts  and  hands  has  nerved, 

And  we  will  do  or  die. 

CHORUS. 

Then  come,  ye  hardy  volunteers, 

Around  our  standard  throng, 
And  pledge  man's  hope  of  coming  years,  — 

The  Union,  —  right  or  wrong  ! 
The  Union  —  right  or  wrong — inspires 

The  burden  of  our  song ; 
It  was  the  glory  of  our  sires  — 

The  Union,  —  riizht  or  wron«" ! 

ii. 

h  is  the  duty  of  us  all 

To  check  rebellion's  sway ; 


170  GONE   TO    THE  WAR. 

To  rally  at  the  nation's  call, 

And  we  that  voice  obey ! 
Then  like  a  band  of  brothers  go, 

A  hostile  league  to  break,  ^ 

To  rout  a  spoil-encumber'd  foe, 

And  what  is  ours,  retake. 

CHORUS. 

So  come,  ye  hardy  volunteers, 

Around  our  standard  throng, 
And  pledge  man's  hope  of  coming  years, 

The  Union,  —  right  or  wrong  ! 
The  Union  — right  or  wrong  —  inspires 

The  burden  of  our  song ; 
It  was  the  glory  of  our  sires  — 

The  Union,  —  right  or  wrong ! 


M 


GONE  TO   THE   WAR. 

BY    HORATIO    ALGER,     JR. 

Y  Charlie  has  gone  to  the  war, 
My  Charlie  so  brave  and  tall  ; 
He  left  his  plough  in  the  furrow 
And  flew  at  his  country's  call. 

May  God  in  safety  keep  him, 
My  precious  boy  —  my  all. 


GONE   TO    THE    WAR,  171 

My  heart  is  pining  to  see  him, 

I  miss  him  every  day ; 
My  heart  is  weary  with  waiting, 

And  sick  of  the  long  delay. 
But  I  know  his  country  needs  him, 

And  I  could  not  bid  him  stay. 

I  remember  how  his  face  flushed, 

And  how  his  color  came, 
When  the  flash  from  the  guns  of  Sumter 

Lit  the  whole  land  with  flame, 
And  darkened  our  country's  banner 

With  the  crimson  hue  of  shame. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  then  faltered,  — 

I  felt  his  mute  appeal ; 
I  paused,  —  if  you  are  a  mother, 

You  know  what  mothers  feel, 
When  called  to  yield  their  dear  ones 

To  the  cruel  bullet  and  steel. 

My  heart  stood  still  for  a  moment, 

Struck  with  a  mighty  woe ; 
A  faint  of  death  came  o'er  me,  — 

I  am  a  mother,  you  know,  — 
But  1  sternly  checked  my  weakness, 

And  firmly  bade  him  "  Go." 


172  TO    THE    UNITED   STATES. 

Wherever  the  fight  is  fiercest 
I  know  that  my  boy  will  be  ; 

Wherever  the  need  is  sorest 
Of*  the  stout  arms  of  the  free, 

May  he  prove  as  true  to  his  country 
As  he  has  been  true  to  me  ! 

My  home  is  lonely  without  him, 
My  heart  bereft  of  joy, — 

The  thought  of  him  who  has  left  me 
My  constant,  sad  employ  ; 

But  God  has  been  good  to  the  mother ; 
She  shall  not  blush  for  her  boy. 


TO  THE   UNITED   STATES. 

BY   MATKE   REID. 

^\TI  !  land  of  my  longings,  beyond  the  Atlantic, 

What  horrible  dream  has  disturbed  thy  repose  ? 
What  demon  lias  driven  thy  citizens  frantic,  — 
A  grief  to  tdeir  friends,  and  a  joy  to  their  foes? 

Ts  it  true  they  are  arming  to  kill  one  another  ? 

That  sire  and  son  are  in  hostile  array  ? 
That  brother  is  baring  his  blade  against  brother,  — 

Each  madly  preparing  the  other  to  slay  V 


TO    THE    UNITED  STATES.  173 

Is  it  true  the  star-banner,  so  dear  to  the  sight 

Of  all  freemen,  may  fall  by  a  factionist's  blow, — 
That  banner  I've  borne  .through  the  midst  of  the 
fight. 
Side  by  side  with  my  sons,  as  we  charged  on  the 
foe? 

I  would  not,  I  will  not,  I  can  not  believe  it ! 

Oh  !  rally  around  it,  and  stand  by  the  staff! 
Or  the  children  of  men  will  have  reason  to  grieve 
it, 

And  the  tyrants  of  men  will  exultingly  laugh. 

Ay,  sure  would  the  kings  and  the  princes  of  earth 
Greet  the  fall  of  thy  flag  with  a  joyous  "hur- 
rah ! " 
Even  now,  scarce  suppressing  demoniac  mirth, 
They  would    hail    thy  decadence  with   fiendish 
"  Ha,  ha ! " 

And  he  who  would  help  them  to  win    their  foul 
game, 
Whether   Northern    or    Southern,  —  no  matter 
which  claims  him,  — 
Be  a  brand  on  his  brow,  and  a  blight  on  his  fame, 
And  scorn  on  the  lip  of  the  humblest  who  name 
him  ! 


1  74  BA  TTLE-ANTUEyf. 

Be  palsied  the  arm  that  draws  sword  fratricidal ! 

May  the  steel  of  the  traitor  be  broken  in  two ! 
May  his  maiden   betrothed,   on   the   morn  of  bis 
bridal, 

Prove  faithless  to  him  as  he  has  been  to  you  ! 

United,  no  power  'neath  heaven  can  shake  thee,  — 
No  purple-robed  despot  e'er  smile  on  thy  shame ; 

Asunder,  like  reeds  they  will  bruise  thee  and  break 
thee, 
And  waste  thee  as  flax  in  the  pitiless  flame. 

Woe,  woe  to  the  world,  if  this  fatal  division 
Should  ever  arise  in  the  ranks  of  the  free ; 

Oh,  brother  !  avoid,  then,  the  fearful  collision, 
And  millions  unborn  will  sing  praises  to  thee  ! 


U 


BATTLE-ANTIIEM. 

BY   JOHN   NEAL. 

P,  Christian  Warrior,  up  !     I  hear 
The  trumpet  of  the  North 
Sounding  the  charge  ! 
Fathers  and  Sons  !  —  to  horse  ! 
Flinjr  the  Old  Standard  forth, 
Blazing  and  lar^e  ! 


BATTLE-ANTHEM.  175 

And  now  I  hear  the  heavy  tramp 
Of  nations  on  the  march, 

Silent  as  death  ! 
A  slowlv  gathering  host, 

Like  clouds  o'er  yonder  arch, 
Holding  their  breath ! 

Our  great  blue  sky  is  overcast ; 
And  stars  are  dropping  out, 

Through  smoke  and  flame  ! 
Hailstones  and  coals  of  fire  ! 
Now  comes  the  battle-shout ; 
Jehovah's  name ! 

And  now  the  rebel  pomp  !  To  prayer ! 
Look  to  your  stirrups,  men  ! 

Yonder  rides  Death  ! 
Now  with  a  whirlwind-sweep  ! 
Empty  their  saddles  when 
Hot  comes  their  breath  ! 

As  through  the  midnight  forest  tears 
With  trumpeting  and  fire 

A  thunder-blast ; 
So,  Reapers  !  tear  your  way 
Through  yonder  camp,  until  you  hear 
"  It  is  enough  !     Put  up  thy  sword  ! 


17G  BOY  BR  ITT  AN. 

O,  Angel  of  the  Lord  ! 
My  wrath  is  past ! 


BOY  BRITTAN. 

BY   FORCEYTIIE  WILLSON. 
I. 

T>  O Y  Brittan  —  only  a  lad  —  a  fair-haired  boy  — 
sixteen, 

In  his  uniform ! 
Into  the  storm  —  into  the  roaring  jaws  of  grim  Fort 
Henry  — 
Boldly  bears  the  Federal  flotilla  — 
Into  the  battle-storm  ! 

ii. 
Boy  Brittan  is  Master's  Mate  aboard  of  the  Essex  — 
There  he' stands  buoyant  and  eager-eyed, 
By  the  brave  Captain's  side  ; 
Ready  to    do    and    dare  —  aye,  aye    sir !    always 
ready  — 

In  his  country's  uniform  ! 
Boom  !     Boom  !  and  now  the  flag-boat  sweeps,  and 
now  the  Essex, 

Into  the  battle  storm  ! 


BOY  BEIT  TAN.  177 

III. 
Boom  !     Boom  !  till  River  and  Fort  and  Field  are 
overclouded 
By  battle's  breath  ;  then  from  the  Fort  a  gleam 
And  a  crashing  gun,  and  the  Essex  is  wrapt  and 
shrouded 
In  a  scalding  cloud  of  steam ! 

IV. 

But  victory  !  victory  ! 
Unto  God  all  praise  be  ever  rendered, 
Unto  God  all  praise  and  glory  be  ! 
See,  Boy  Brittan  ;  see,  Boy,  see ! 
They  strike  !     Hurrah  !  the  Fort  has  just  surren- 
dered ! 
Shout !  Shout !  my  Boy,  my  warrior  Boy  ! 
And  wave  your  cap  and  clap  your  hands  for  joy  ! 

Cheer  answer  cheer  and  bear  the  cheer  about  — 
Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  for  the  fiery  Fort  is  ours  ; 
And  "  Victory  !  "  "  Victory  !  "  "  Victory  !  " 
Is  the  shout. 
Shout  —  for  the  fiery  Fort,  and  the  Field,  and  the 
day  are  ours  — 
The  day  is  ours  —  thanks  to  the  brave  endeavor 

Of  heroes,  Boy,  like  thee  ! 
The  day  is  ours  —  the  day  is  ours  ! 
Glory  and  deathless  love  to  all  who  shared  with  thee, 
1-2 


178  BOY  BRIT  TAN. 

And  bravely  endured  and  dared  with  thee  — 
The  day  is  ours  —  the  day  is  ours  — 
Forever  ! 
Glory  and  Love  for  one  and  all ;  but  —  but  —  for 
thee  — 
Home  !   Home  !    a  happy  "  Welcome  —  welcome 
home  "  for  thee  ! 

And  kisses  of  love  for  thee  — 
And  a  Mother's  happy,  happy  tears,  and  a  virgin's 
bridal  wreath  of  flowers  — 
For  thee ! 

v. 

Victory !     Victory ! 
But    suddenly   wrecked    and    wrapt    in    seething 
steam,  the  Essex 
Slowly  drifted  out  of  the  battle's  storm ; 
Slowly,  slowly  —  down  —  laden  with  the  dead  and 

the  dying ; 
And  there,  at  the  Captain's  feet,  among  the  dead 

and  the  dying, 
The  shot-marred  form  of  a  beautiful  Boy  is  lying  — 
There  in  his  uniform  1 

VI. 

Laurels  and  tears  for  thee,  Boy, 
Laurels  and  tears  for  thee  ! 


BOY  BRITTAN.  170 

Laurels  of  light,  moist  with  the  precious  dew 

Of  the  inmost  heart  of  the  Nation's  loving  heart, 
And  blest  by  the  balmy  breath  of  the  Beautiful  and 
the  True ; 

Moist  —  moist  with    the    luminous    breath   of  the 
singing  spheres 

And  the  Nation's  starry  tears ! 
And   tremble-touched  by  the  pulse-like  gush  and 

start 
Of  the  universal  music  of  the  heart, 

And  all  deep  sympathy  ! 
Laurels  and  tears  for  thee,  Boy, 

Laurels  and  tears  for  thee  — 
Laurels  of  light,  and  tears  of  love,  forevermore  — 

For  thee  ! 

VII. 

And  laurels  of  Light,  and  tears  of  Truth, 

And  the  Mantle  of  Immortality ; 
And  the  flowers  of  Love  and  immortal  Youth, 
And  the  tender  heart-tokens  of  all  true  ruth — • 
And  the  Everlasting  Victory  ! 
And  the  breath  and  bliss  of  Liberty, 
And  the  loving  kiss  of  Liberty; 
And  the  welcoming  light  of  heavenly  eyes, 
And  the  over-calm  of  God's  canopy  ; 


180  BO  Y  BRIT  TAN. 

And  the  infinite  love-span  of  the  skies 
That  cover  the  Valleys  of  Paradise  — 

For  all  of  the  brave  who  rest  with  thee ; 

And  for  one  and  all  who  died  with  thee, 

And  now  sleep  side  by  side  with  thee  ; 
And  for  every  one  who  lives  and  dies, 

On  the  solid  land  or  the  heaving  sea, 

Dear  warrior-boy  —  like  thee. 

VIII. 

O,  the  Victory  —  the  Victory 
Belongs  to  thee  ! 
God  ever  keeps  the  brightest  crown  for   such  as 
thou  — 

He  gives  it  now  to  thee  ! 
O  Young  and  Brave,  and  early  and  thrice  blest  — 

Thrice,  thrice,  thrice  blest ! 
Thy  Country  turns  once  more  to  kiss  thy  youthful 
brow, 
And  takes  thee  —  gently  —  gently  to  her  breast ; 
And   whispers  lovingly,   "  God   bless   thee  —  bless 
thee  now  — 

My  darling,  thou  shalt  rest !  " 


"THE  LAST  BROADSIDE:'1  181 


"THE  LAST   BROADSIDE." 

BY   ELIZABETH  T.    PORTER    BEACH. 

The  following  lines  were  written  upon  hearing  of  the  heroism 
of  the  crew  of  the  "  Frigate  Cumberland, "  in  the  engagement  at 
M  Hampton  Roads, "  who  bravely  fired  a  last  "Broadside7'  while 
their  ship  was  sinking,  in  compliance  with  the  order  of  their  Com- 
manding Officer,  the  gallant  hero,  Lieutenant  Morris. 

';  Shall  we  give  them  a  Broadside  as  she  goes  ?  " 


s 


HALL  we  give  them  a  Broadside,  my  boys,  as 

she  goes  ? 
Shall  we  send  yet  another  to  tell, 
In  iron-tongued  words,  to  Columbia's  foes, 
How  bravely  her  sons  say  Farewell  ? 

Ay  !  what  though  we  sink  'neath  the  turbulent  wave, 
'T  is  with  dutv  and  right  at  the  helm  ; 

And  over  the  form  should  the  fierce  waters  rave, 
No  tide  can  the  spirit  o'er  whelm  ! 

For  swift  o'er  the  billows  of  Charon's  dark  stream 

We  '11  pass  to  the  Immortal  shore, 
Where  the  "  waters  of  life  "  in  brilliancy  beam, 

And  the  pure  float  in  peace  evermore  ! 


182  "  THE  LAST  BROADSIDE." 

Shall  we  give  them  a  Broadside  once  more,  my 
brave  men  ? 
"  Ay  !  Ay  ! "  rose  the  full,  earnest  cry  ; 
14  A  Broadside  !     A  Broadside  !    we  '11  give  them 
again  ! 
Then  for  God  and  the  Right  nobly  die." 

"  Haste  !  Haste  !  " —  for  amid  all  that  battling  din 
Comes  a  gurgling  sound  fraught  with  fear, 

As  swift  flowing  waters  pour  rushingly  in  ; 
Up  !  Up  !  till  her  portholes  they  near. 

No    blenching  !  —  no  faltering !  —  still  fearless  all 
seem ; 

Each  man  firm  to  duty  doth  bide  ; 
A  flash  !  and  a  "  Broadside  !  "  a  shout !  a  careen  ! 

And  the  Cumberland  sinks  'neath  the  tide ! 

The  "  Star  Spangled  Banner"  still  floating  above! 

As  a  beacon  upon  the  dark  wave  ! 
Our  Ensign  of  Glory,  proud  streaming  in  love, 

O'er  the  tomb  of  the  "  Loyal  and  Brave  !  " 

Bold  hearts  !  mighty  spirits !   "  tried  gold  "  of  our 
land  ! 

A  halo  of  glory  your  meed ! 
All  honored,  the  noble-souled  Cumberland  band  1 

So  true  in  Columbia's  need  ! 


A    CALL  FOR    TRUE  MEN.  183 

A   CALL   FOR   TRUE  MEN. 

BY   ROBERT   LOWELL. 

TTP  to  battle  !     Up  to  battle  ! 

All  we  love  is  saved  or  lost ! 
Workshop's  hum  and  wayside's  tattle, 
Oil*!     This  thing  the  life  may  cost. 
Come,   for  your  country  !      For   all   dear  things, 

come  ! 
Come  to  the  roll  of  the  rallying  drum  ! 

You  have  seen  the  spring-swollen  river 

Hurling  torrent,  ice  and  wreck  ! 
You  have  felt  the  strong  pier  quiver 

Like  a  tempest-shaken  deck  :  — 
Many  a  stout  heart,  quick  hand,  and  eye, 
Broke  the  water's  mad  strength,  and  it  went  by. 

Look  on  this  mad,  threatening  torrent, 
Tumbling  on,  with  blood  and  death  ! 

Will  we  see  our  bulwarks  war-rent? 
Never!     Snatch  a  stronger  breath  : 

Here  is  good  man's  work  !     Break  through,  and 
through  ! 

What  matters  hardship,  or  danger,  to  you  ? 


181     VOYAGE  OF   TIIE    GOOD   SJIJP    UNION. 

What  were  death  to  any  true  man, 

If  the  cause  be  true  and  high  ? 
Beastly  might  quails  under  human 

Looking  calmly  in  its  eye. 
Come  !  with  your  fearless  strength  break  yonder 

ranks  ! 
God's  blessing  !  glory  !  and  evermore  thanks  ! 


VOYAGE  OF   THE   GOOD   SHIP  UNION. 

BY   OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES. 

5HH  IS  midnight :  through  my  troubled  dream 

Loud  wails  the  tempest's  cry  ; 
Before  the  gale,  with  tattered  sail, 

A  ship  goes  plunging  by. 
What  name  ?  Where  bound  ?  —  The  rocks  around 

Repeat  the  loud  halloo. 

—  The  good  ship  Union,  Southward  bound  : 
God  help  her  and  her  crew ! 

And  is  the  old  flag  flying  still 

That  o'er  your  fathers  flew, 
With  bands  of  white  and  rosy  light, 

And  field  of  starry  blue  ? 

—  Ay  !  look  aloft !  its  folds  full  oft 
Have  braved  the  roaring  blast, 


VOYAGE    OF   THE  GOOD  SHIP    UNION.      185 

And  still  shall  fly  when  from  the  sky 
This  black  typhoon  has  past ! 

Speak,  pilot  of  the  storm-tost  bark  ! 
May  I  thy  perils  share  ? 

—  Oh  landsmen,  these  are  fearful  seas 
The  brave  alone  may  dare  ! 

—  Nay,  ruler  of  the  rebel  deep, 
What  matters  wind  or  wave  ? 

The  rocks  that  wreck  your  reeling  deck 
Will  leave  me  nought  to  save  ! 

Oh,  landsman,  art  thou  false  or  true  ? 
What  sign  hast  thou  to  show  ? 

—  The  crimson  stains  from  loyal  veins 
That  hold  my  heart-blood's  flow ! 

—  Enough  !  what  more  shall  honor  claim  ? 
I  know  the  sacred  sign ; 

Above  thy  head  our  flag  shall  spread. 
Our  ocean  path  be  thine  ! 

The  bark  sails  on  :  the  Pilgrims'  Capo 

Lies  low  along  her  lee, 
Whose  headland  crooks  its  anchor  flukes 

To  lock  the  shore  and  sea. 
No  treason  here  !  it  cost  too  dear 

To  win  this  barren  realm  ! 


186      VOYAGE   OF   THE   GOOD   SHIP    UNlOAt 

And  true  and  free  the  hands  must  be 
That  hold  the  whaler's  helm ! 

Still  on  !  Manhattan's  narrowing  bay 

No  Rebel  cruiser  scars  ; 
Her  waters  feel  no  pirate's  keel 

That  flaunts  the  fallen  stars ! 

—  But  watch  the  light  on  yonder  height,  — 
Ay,  pilot,  have  a  care  ! 

Some  lingering  cloud  in  mist  may  shroud 
The  Capes  of  Delaware  ! 

Say,  pilot,  what  this  fort  may  be 

Whose  sentinels  look  down 
From  moated  walls  that  show  the  sea 

Their  deep  embrasures'  frown  ? 
-  The  Rebel  host  claims  all  the  coast, 

But  these  are  friends,  we  know, 
Whose  footprints  spoil  the  M  sacred  soil," 

And  this  is  ? Fort  Monroe  ! 

The  breakers  roar,  —  how  bean  the  shore  ? 

—  The  traitorous  wreckers'  hands 
Have  quenched  the  blaze  that  poured  its  rays 

AI0112  the  Hatteras  sands. 

—  Ha  1  say  not  so  !     I  see  its  glow  ! 
Again  the  shoals  display 


VOYAGE    OF   THE  GOOD  SHIP    UNION.      187 

The  beacon  light  that  shines  by  night, 
The  Union  Stars  by  day  ! 

The  good  ship  flies  to  milder  skies, 

The  wave  more  gently  flows  ; 
The  softening  breeze  wafts  o'er  the  seas 

The  breath  of  Beaufort's  rose. 
What  fold  is  this  the  sweet  winds  kiss, 

Fair-striped  and  many-starred, 
Whose  shadow  palls  the  orphaned  walls, 

The  twins  of  Beauregard? 

What !  heard  you  not  Port  Royal's  doom  ? 

How  the  black  war-ships  came 
And  turned  the  Beaufort  roses'  bloom 

To  redder  wreaths  of  flame  ? 
How  from  Rebellion's  broken  reed 

We  saw  his  emblem  fall, 
As  soon  his  cursed  poison-weed 

Shall  drop  from  Sumter's  wall  ? 

On  !  on  !  Pulaski's  iron  hail 

Falls  harmless  on  Tvbee  ! 
Her  topsails  feel  the  freshening  gale,  — 

She  strikes  the  open  sea  ; 
She  rounds  the  point,  she  threads  the  keys 

That  guard  the  Land  of  Flowers, 


188    THE  BIBLE  AND    THE  SHELL. 

And  rides  at  last  where  firm  and  fast 
Her  own  Gibraltar  towers  ! 

The  good  ship  Union's  voyage  is  o'er, 

At  anchor  safe  she  swings, 
And  loud  and  clear  with  cheer  on  cheer 

Her  joyous  welcome  rings  : 
Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  it  shakes  the  wave, 

It  thunders  on  the  shore,  — 
One  flag,  one  land,  one  heart,  one  hand, 

One  Nation,  evermore  ! 


THE  BIBLE   AND   THE   SHELL. 

BY   REV.    CHARLES   W.    DKKISON,    CHAPLAIN   U.  S.  A, 


A 


1  Fredericksburg,  when  foemen  waged 


The  battle  of  the  plain, 
A  soldier,  face  to  face  engaged, 

Through  smoke  and  fog  and  rain, 
Knelt  down  beside  his  trusty  gun, 

Among  the  shrieking  shell, 
Nor  paused  until  the  day  was  done, 

And  to  the  earth  he  fell. 


SONG  FOR    OUR    SOLDIERS.  189 

Stretched  out  upon  the  trembling  ground, 

He  bleeding,  helpless  lay  ; 
His  Bible  on  his  breast  was  found, 

Where  his  coat  was  torn  away  : 
A  shell  had  struck  the  sacred  book, 

And  shattered  it  apart ; 
But  there  the  fragment  glanced,  and  took 

Its  leap  from  off  his  heart ! 

A  Minie  ball  came  singing,  then, 

And  lodged  in  his  bosom's  flesh ; 
But  he  rose  alive,  among  dying  men, 

And  knelt  and  fought  afresh. 
Again  this  living  truth  was  graved 

On  that  torn  and  bloody  sod,  — 
Full  many  a  soldier's  life  is  saved 

By  the  Holy  Book  of  God. 


SONG  FOR   OUR   SOLDIERS. 

BY   ALICE    CART. 

/^\H  !  for  the  Union,  boys  ! 

Ho !  for  the  Union,  boys  : 
Go  for  the  Union,  boys, 
Heart,  hand,  and  gun. 


190  SONG  FOR    OUR  SOLDIERS. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  boys, 
Younger  and  older,  boys, 
Bolder  and  bolder,  boys, 
Every  mother's  son ! 

Where  you  find  the  white  men, 
Union-hating  white  men, 
Ribald  rabble  white  men, 

Let  your  cannon  play. 
Where  you  find  the  black  men, 
Union-loving  black  men, 
True  and  loyal  black  men, 

Let  'em  run  away  ! 
Break  off  their  chains,  boys  ! 
Strike  off  their  chains,  boys  ! 
Knock  off  their  chains,  boys, 

And  let  Jem  run  away. 

Oh  !  for  the  Union,  boys  ! 
Ho !  for  the  Union,  boys  : 
Go  for  the  Union,  boys, 

Heart,  hand,  and  sword. 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  boys, 
Bolder  and  bolder,  boys. 
Younger  and  older,  boys, 

Trusting  in  the  Lord. 


THE    VOLUNTEER.  191 

Where  you  find  the  white  men, 
Union-hating  white  men, 
Ribald  rabble  white  men, 

Let  your  cannon  play  ! 
Where  you  find  the  black  men, 
Union-loving  black  men, 
True  and  loyal  black  men, 

Let  'em  run  away. 
Break  off  their  chains,  boys ! 
Strike  off  their  chains,  boys ! 
Knock  off  their  chains,  boys, 

And  let  'em  run  away ! 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 

BY   ELB RIDGE   JEFFERSON   CUTLER. 

A  T  dawn,"  he  said,  "  I  bid  them  all  farewell, 
To  go  where  bugles'call  and  rifles  gleam." 
And  with  the  restless  thought  asleep  he  fell 
And  glided  into  dream. 

A  great  hot  plain  from  sea  to  mountain  spread, 

Through  it  a  level  river  slowly  drawn  ; 
He  moved  with  a  vast  crowd,  and  at  its  head 
Streamed  banners  like  the  dawn. 


192  THEN  AND  NOW. 

There  came  a  blinding  flash,  a  deafening  roar, 
And  dissonant  cries  of  triumph  and  dismay; 
Blood  trickled  down  the  river's  reedy  shore, 
And  with  the  dead  he  lay. 

The  morn  broke  in  upon  his  solemn  dreams, 

And  still,  with  steady  pulse  and  deepening  eye, 
"  Where  bugles  call,"  he  said,  "  and  rifles  gleam, 
I  follow,  though  I  die  !  " 

Wise  youth  !     By  few  is  glory's  wreath  attained  ; 

But  death,  or  late  or  soon,  awaiteth  all. 
To  fight  in  Freedom's  cause  is  something  gained, — 
And  nothing  lost,  to  fall. 


THEN  AND  NOW. 

JFT1  WAS  the   night  before  Christmas,  just  one 

year  ago, 
In  the  same  little  cot  slept  Nannie  and  Joe, 
While   wonderful  dreams   swarmed    through  each 

cunning  head 
Of  the  stockings  they  'd  hung  at  the  sides  of  their 

bed. 
A  very  slight  creak  of  the  nursery  door, 


THEN  AND  NOW.  193 

Soirte  slow  muffled  footsteps  across  the  smooth 
floor, 

And  Pa  and  Mamma  each  laden  with  toys, 

Soon  filled  the  wee  stockings  with  numberless  joys. 

A  long  look,  a  fond  look  at  each  darling  face, 

A  thought  of  the  morrow  their  Madness  would 
grace  ; 

Then  on  tiptoe  retreating,  they  too  sank  in  slum- 
ber, 

Surrounded  by  blessings  their  lips  scarce  could 
number. 


'Tis  the  night  before  Christmas,  and  Nannie  and 

Joe 
Are  drearily  watching  the  fast  falling  snow; 
Their  hearts  and  their  fancies  have  travelled  afar, 
After  Father,  dear  Father,  who 's  gone  to  the  war ; 
And   they  wonder  what    need    for   Christmas    to 

come, 
Since  darling  Papa  cannot  spend  it  at  home. 
Mamma,  dimly  seen  by  the  fire-light's  glare, 
Rocks  herself  to  and  fro  in  Ms  favorite  chair, 
While   fears  for  the  present  and  thoughts  of  the 

past, 
Like  shadows  alternate  are  over  her  cast. 
The  sweet  recollection  of  one  year  ago, 

13 


194  THE   CUMBERLAND. 

Lies  pure  in  her  heart  as  does  moonlight  on  snow. 
"  But  where  is  he  now  ?  "  a  low,  wailing  cry, 
Wrung  by  torturing  doubt,  is  the  only  reply. 

Upon  Rappahannock's  memorable  shore, 

The  loved  Father  sleeps  to  awaken  no  more. 

One  sharp  pang  in  battle,  —  "  My  Children  !  My 

Wife  !  " 
And  he  fell  in  the  glorious  noon  of  his  life. 

Oh  God  of  great  pity  !     Whenever  death  comes, 
Be  Thou  comfort  and  light  in  the  desolate  homes  ; 
May  Bethlehem's  Christ-child  descend  like  a  dove, 
And  fold  little  ones  'neath  the  wings  of  His  love  ; 
And  when,  in  Thy  mercy,  earth's  last  links  are 

riven, 
Oh,  grant  a  re-union,  —  a  Christmas  in  Heaven. 

N. 


THE   CUMBERLAND. 

BY  1IKKKY  W.   LONG]  BLLOW. 

A  T  anchor  in  Hampton   Roads  we  lay, 

On  board  the  Cumberland  sloop-of-war  ; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 


THE   CUMBERLAND.  195 

The  alarm  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle-blast 
From  the  camp  on  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  South  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs 

Silent  and  sullen  the  floating  fort ; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

u  Strike  your  flag  !  "  the  rebel  cries, 
In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain, 


19G  THE   CUMBERLAND. 

u  Never  !  "  our  gallant  Morris  replies  ; 
"  It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield !  " 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  eheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  1 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flasf  at  the  mainmast-head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day  ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho!  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas, 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream. 
Ho!  brave  land  !  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  scam. 


ON   THE  SHORES    OF   TENNESSEE.       19  7 


ON  THE   SHORES    OF   TENNESSEE. 

BY    ETHEL    LYNN    BEERS. 

"YTOVE  my  arm-chair,  faithful  Pompey, 

In  the  sunshine  bright  and  strong, 
For  this  world  is  fading,  Pompey,  — 

Massa  won't  be  with  you  long ; 
And  I  fain  would  hear  the  south  wind 

Bring  once  more  the  sound  to  me, 
Of  the  wavelets  softly  breaking 

On  the  shores  of  Tennessee. 

"Mournful  though  the  ripples  murmur, 

As  they  still  the  story  tell, 
How  no  vessels  float  the  banner 

That  I  've  loved  so  long  and  well. 
I  shall  listen  to  their  music, 

Dreaming  that  a^ain  I  see 
Stars  and  Stripes  on  sloop  and  shallop 

Sailing  up  the  Tennessee. 

"  And,  Pompey,  while  old  Massa  *s  waiting 
For  Death's  last  despatch  to  come, 

If  that  exiled,  starry  banner 

Should  come  proudly  sailing  home, 

You  shall  greet  it,  slave  no  longer ;  — 
Voice  and  hand  shall  both  be  free 


198     ON   THE  SHORES    OF   TENNESSEE. 

That  shout  and  point  to  Union  colors 
On  the  waves  of  Tennessee." 

"  Massa  's  berry  kind  to  Pompey  ; 
But  ole  darkey  's  happy  here, 

Where  he  's  tended  corn  and  cotton 
For  'ese  many  a  long  gone  year. 

Over  yonder  Missis*  sleeping,  — 
No  one  tends  her  grave  like  me  ; 

Mebbie  she  would  miss  the  flowers 
She  used  to  love  in  Tennessee. 

"  Tears  like  she  was  watching,  Massa  — 

If  Pompey  should  beside  him  stay ; 
Mebbie  she  'd  remember  better 

How  for  him  she  used  to  pray ; 
Telling  him  (hat  way  up  yonder 

White  as  snow  his  soul  would  be, 
If  he  served  the  Lord  of  Heaven 

While  he  lived  in  Tennessee." 

Silently  the  tears  were  rolling 
Down  the  poor  old  dusky  face, 

As  he  stepped  behind  his  master, 
In  his  long-accustomed  place. 

Then  a  silence  fell  around  them, 
As  they  gazed  on  rock  and  tree 


ON   THE  SHORES    OF   TENNESSEE.     19C 

Pictured  In  the  placid  waters 
Of  the  rolling  Tennessee. 

Master,  dreaming  of  the  battle  % 

Where  he  fought  by  Marion's  side, 
When  he  bid  the  haughty  Tarleton 

Stoop  his  lordly  crest  of  pride. 
Man,  remembering  how  yon  sleeper 

Once  he  held  upon  his  knee, 
Ere  she  loved  the  gallant  soldier, 

Ralph  Vervair  of  Tennessee. 

Still  the  south  wind  fondly  lingers 

'Mid  the  veteran's  silver  hair  ; 
Still  the  bondman  close  beside  him 

Stands  behind  the  old  arm-chair. 
With  his  dark-hued  hand  uplifted, 

Shading  eyes,  he  bends  to  see 
Where  the  woodland,  boldly  jutting, 

Turns  aside  the  Tennessee. 

Thus  he  watches  cloud-born  shadows 
Glide  from  tree  to  mountain  crest, 

Softly  creeping,  aye  and  ever 
To  the  river's  yielding  breast. 

Ha !  above  the  foliage  yonder 
Something  flutters  wild  and  free  ! 


200     ON   THE  SHORES    OF    TENNESSEE. 

"Massa!  Massa!  Hallelujah! 

The  flag 's  come  back  to  Tennessee  !  " 

"  Pompey,  hold  me  on  your  shoulder, 

Help  me  stand  on  foot  once  more, 
That  I  may  salute  the  colors 

As  they  pass  my  cabin  door  ; 
Here 's  the  paper  signed  that  frees  you, 

Give  a  freeman's  shout  with  me  — 
4  God  and  Union  !'  be  our  watchword 

Evermore  in  Tennessee." 

Then  the  trembling  voice  grew  fainter, 

And  the  limbs  refused  to  stand  ; 
One  prayer  to  Jesus  —  and  the  soldier 

Glided  to  that  better  land. 
When  the  flag  went  down  the  river 

Man  and  master  both  were  free, 
While  the  ringdove's  note  was  mingled 

With  the  rippling  Tennessee. 


DIRGE  FOR  A   SOLDIER.  201 

DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER. 

IN  MEMORY  OF  GEN.   PHILIP  KEARNY. 

BY   GEORGE   H.    BOKER. 

/^ILOSE  his  eves,  his  work  is  done  ! 
What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor ; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley ! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 


202  THE   CUMBERLAND. 

What  but  death  bemocking  folly  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye, 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by  : 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know 
Lay  him  low  ! 


THE  CUMBERLAND. 

ANONYMOUS. 

ll/rAGNIFICENT  thy  fate! 

Once  Mistress  of  the  Seas, 
No  braver  vessel  ever  flung 

A  pennon  to  the  breeze ; 
No  bark  e'er  died  a  death  so  grand  ; 

Such  heroes  never  vessel  manned; 
Your  parting  broadside  broke  the  wave 

That  surged  above  your  patriot  grave  ; 


STARS  IN  MY   COUNTRTS  SKY.      203 

Your  flag,  the  gamest  of  the  game, 

Sank  proudly  with  you  —  not  in  shame, 
But  in  its  ancient  glory  ; 

The  mem'ry  of  its  parting  gleam 
Will  never  fade  while  poets  dream ; 

The  echo  of  your  dying  gun 
Will  last  till  man  his  race  has  run, 

Then  live  in  angel  story. 


STARS  IN  MY   COUNTRY'S   SKY. 

BY   L.    H.    SIGOURNEY. 

A  RE  ye  all  there  ?     Are  ye  all  there, 
Stars  of  my  country's  sky  ? 
Are  ye  all  there  ?     Are  ye  all  tliere, 

In  your  shining  homes  on  high  ? 
M  Count  us !    Count  us,"  was  their  answer, 

As  they  dazzled  on  my  view, 
In  glorious  perihelion, 
Amid  their  field  of  blue. 

I  cannot  count  ye  rightly  ; 

There  's  a  cloud  with  sable  rim ; 
I  cannot  make  your  number  out, 

For  my  eyes  with  tears  are  dim. 


204       STARS  IN  MY   COUNTRY'S  SKY. 

Oh  !  bright  and  blessed  Angel, 

On  white  wins  floating  bv, 
Help  me  to  count  and  not  to  miss 

One  star  in  my  country's  sky  ! 

Then  the  Angel  touched  mine  eyelids, 

And  touched  the  frowning  cloud  ; 
And  its  sable  rim  departed, 

And  it  fled  with  murky  shroud. 
There  was  no  missing  Pleiad, 

'Mid  all  that  sister  race ; 
The  Southern  Cross  gleamed  radiant  forth, 

And  the  Pole  star  kept  its  place. 

Then  I  knew  it  was  the  Angel 

AVho  woke  the  hymning  strain 
That  at  our  dear  Redeemer's  birth 

Pealed  out  o'er  Bethlehem's  plain  ; 
And  still  its  heavenly  key-tone 

My  listening  country  held, 
For  all  her  constellated  stars 

The  diapason  swelled. 

Hartford,  Conn. 


OLD  FANEUIL  HALL.  205 

OLD   FANEUIL   HALL. 

BY   EDWARD   E.    HALE. 

/^OME  soldiers,  join  a  Yankee  song, 
And  cheer  us,  as  we  march  along, 

With  Yankee  voices,  —  full  and  strong,  — 
Join  in  chorus  all ; 

Our  Yankee  notions  here  we  bring, 

Our  Yankee  chorus  here  we  sing, — 

80  make  the  Dixie  forest  ring 

With  "  Old  Faxeuil  Hall  !" 

When  first  our  Fathers  made  us  free, 
When  Old  King  George  first  taxed  the  tea, 
They  swore  they  would  not  bend  the  knee, 

But  armed  them  one  and  all  ! 
In  days  like  those  the  chosen  spot 
To  keep  the  hissing  water  hot, 
To  pour  the  tea-leaves  in  the  pot, 

Was  Old  Faneuil  Hall  ! 

So  when,  to  steal  our  tea  and  toast, 
At  Sumter  first  the  Rebel  host 
Prepared  to  march  along  the  coast, 
At  Jeff.  Davis's  call  — 


206  OLD  FAN  EVIL  HALL, 

lie  stood  on  Sumter's  tattered  flag, 
To  cheer  them  with  the  game  of  bras 
He  bade  them  fly  his  Rebel  Rag 
On  Old  Faneuil  Hall  ! 

But  war  *s  a  game  that  two  can  play  ; 
They  waked  us  up  that  very  day, 
And  bade  the  Yankees  come  away 

Down  South  —  at  Abram's  call ! 
And  so  I  learned  my  facings  right, 
And  so  I  packed  my  knapsack  tight, 
And  then  I  spent  the  parting  night 

In  Old  Faneuil  Hall  ! 

And  on  that  day  which  draws  so  nigh 
When  rebel  ranks  our  steel  shall  try,  - 
When  sounds  at  last  the  closing  cry 

14  Charge  bayonets — all !  " 
The  Yankee  shout  from  far  and  near, 
Which  broken  ranks  in  flying  hear, 
Shall  be  a  rousing  Northern  cheer 

From  Old  Faneuil  Hall  ! 


OUR    UNION  AND    OUR  FLAG.        20: 
OUR  UNION  AND   OUR  FLAG. 

BY  RUTH  N.    CROMWELL. 

1\TY  flag,  when  first  those  starry  folds 
Which  waved  o'er  Sumter's  band 
Received  the  traitor's  murderous  fire, 

How  flashed  the  tumult  through  the  land. 
No  soul  e'er  panted  for  the  hour 

That  lifts  it  from  love's  torturing  rack 
As  panted,  then,  a  nation's  heart 

To  hurl  the  insult  back. 

If  shame  then  hushed  Columbia's  breath 

And  bowed  her  beauteous  form, 
'Twas  but  the  siroc's  awful  pause,  — 

The  lull  before  the  storm. 
Then  men  awoke,  soul  spoke  to  soul, 

And  hand  grasped  hand,  for  woe  or  weal ; 
Then  wavering  hearts  were  turned  to  iron, 

And  nerves  were  turned  to  steel. 

Old  feuds  were  not,  old  parties  died ; 

From  vale  to  mountain  crag, 
A  nation's  shout  linked  friend  and  foe, 

Our  Union  and  our  flag ; 
We  gave  our  men  as  freely  then 


203         OUR    UNION  AND    OUR  FLAG. 

As  leaves  from  forest  tree  ; 
We  gave  our  gold,  as  rivers  give 
Their  waters  to  the  sea. 

Still  floats  on  high  Columbia's  flag, 

In  the  gloom  of  the  autumn  day,  — 
The  blot  still  on  her  starry  folds, 

The  stain  not  washed  away  ; 
Fort  Moultrie  stands,  and  Charleston  lives, 

And  Freedom's  sun  grows  pale ; 
Oh  !  God,  whate'er  thy  children's  doom, 

Let  not  her  foes  prevail. 

We  point  to  Ellsworth's  honored  tomb, 

To  Lyon's  fall,  to  Baker's  grave  ; 
What  say  Missouri's  vine-clad  hills  ? 

What  answer  from  Potomac's  wave  ? 
What  answer  they  ?     Men  ask  of  men 

Who  never  yet  foreswore  the  vow  ; 
What  answer  they  V   (he  nation  asks, 

With  lowering  heart  and  brow. 

Men,  whom  Columbia's  voice  hath  call'd 

To  guide  the  ship  of  State, 
Remember  well  each  soul  on  board 

( hviis  portion  in  her  freight ; 
More  clean  was  Nero's  ret  king  brow, 


THE   TWO  FURROWS.  209 

More  guiltless  Arnold's  past, 
Than  the  hand  that  falters  at  the  helm, 
Or  shrinks  before  the  blast. 


THE  TWO  FURROWS. 

BY   C.    H.   WEBB. 

npHE  spring-time  came  —  but  not  with  mirth 

The  banner  of  our  trust, 
And  with  it  the  best  hopes  of  earth, 
Were  trailing  in  the  dust. 


o 


The  Farmer  saw  the  shame  from  far, 
And  stopped  his  plough  afield  : 
"  Not  the  blade  of  peace  but  the  brand  of  war 
This  arm  of  mine  must  wield. 

"  When  traitor  hands  that  flag  would  stain, 
Their  homes  let  women  keep  ; 
Until  its  stars  burn  bright  again, 
Let  others  sow  and  reap." 

The  Farmer  sighed,  —  "A  lifetime  long 

The  plough  has  been  my  trust  \ 
In  truth  it  were  an  arrant  wrong 

To  leave  it  now  to  rust." 

14 


210  THE   TWO  FURROWS. 

With  ready  strength  the  Farmer  tore 

The  iron  from  the  wood, 
And  to  the  village  smith  he  bore 

That  ploughshare  stout  and  good. 

The  blacksmith's  arms  were  bare  and  brown, 

And  loud  the  bellows  roared ; 
The  Farmer  flung  his  ploughshare  down,  — 

11  Now  forge  me  out  a  sword  ! " 

And  then  a  merry,  merry  chime 

The  sounding  anvil  rung, — 
Good  sooth,  it  was  a  nobler  rhyme 

Than  ever  poet  sung. 

The  blacksmith  wrought  with  skill  that  day, 
The  blade  was  keen  and  bright ; 

And  now  where  thickest  is  the  fray 
The  Farmer  leads  the  fight. 

Not  as  of  old  that  blade  he  sways 

To  break  the  meadow's  Bleep, 
But  through  the  rebel  ranks  he  lays 

A  furrow  broad  and  deep. 

The  Farmer's  face  is  burned  and  brown, 
But  light  is  on  his  brow; 


SHALL  FREEDOM  DROOP  AND  DIE?    211 

Riirht  well  he  wots  what  blessings  crown 
The  furrow  of  the  Plough. 

11  But  better  is  to-day's  success,"  — 
Thus  ran  the  Farmer's  word,  — 

"  For  nations  yet  unborn  shall  bless 
This  furrow  of  the  Sword." 


SHALL  FREEDOM   DROOP   AND  DIE  ? 

BY   CHARLES    G.    LELAND. 

QIIALL  Freedom  droop  and  die, 

And  we  stand  idle  by, 
When  countless  millions  yet  unborn 
Will  ask  the  reason  why  ? 

If  for  her  fla£  on  high 

You  bravely  fight  and  die, 

Be  sure  that  God  on  his  great  roll 
Will  mark  the  reason  why. 

But  should  ye  basely  fly, 

Scared  by  the  battle-cry, 
Then  down  through  all  eternity 

You  '11  hear  the  reason  why. 


212  THIS  DAY,    COUNTRYMEN. 

THIS  DAY,   COUNTRYMEN. 

BY   ROBERT   LOWELL. 

/HOWARDS,  slink  away  ! 

But  who  scorns  to  see  the  foe 
Deal  our  land  all  shame  and  woe, 
Must  go  forth,  to-day  ! 

Crops  are  safe,  afield  ; 

Cripples  and  old  men  can  reap ; 

Young  and  strong  and  bold  must  leap 
Other  tools  to  wield. 

Cast  the  daily  trade  ! 
Never  may  be  bought  or  won, 
After  this  great  fight  is  done, 

What,  To-day,  is  weighed. 

Leave  your  true-love's  side  ! 

Go,  be  fearless  and  be  strong : 

Woman  glories  to  belong 
Where  she  looks  with  pride. 

True  men  hold  our  line  : 

Basely  leave  their  true  ranks  thin, 


M1TCHEL.  213 

Waste  and  ruin  will  rush  in, 
Like  the  trampling  swine. 

Dare  you  be  a  man  ? 

Now,  for  home  and  law  and  right, 

Go,  in  God's  name,  to  the  fight ! 
Forward  to  the  van  ! 


MITCHEL. 

BY  W.   FRANCIS   WILLIAMS. 

"  Hung  be  the  Heavens  with  blacky 

TTIS  mighty  life  was  burned  away 

By  Carolina's  fiery  sun  ; 
The  pestilence  that  walks  by  day 

Smote  him  before  his  course  seemed  run. 

The  constellations  of  the  sky, — 

The  Pleiades,  the  Southern  Cross,  — 

Looked  sadly  down  to  see  him  die, 
To  see  a  nation  weep  his  loss. 

"  Send  him  to  us,"  the  stars  might  cry,  — 
You  do  not  feel  his  worth  below ; 


214  M1TCHEL. 

Your  petty  great  men  do  not  try 
The  measure  of  his  mind  to  know. 

"  Send  him  to  us,  —  this  is  his  place,  — 
Not  'mid  your  puny  jealousies  ; 
You  sacrificed  him  in  your  race 
Of  envies,  strifes,  and  policies. 

"  His  eye  could  pierce  our  vast  expanse,  — 
His  ear  could  hear  our  morning  songs,  — 
His  mind,  amid  our  mystic  dance, 
Could  follow  all  our  myriad  throngs. 

"  Send  him  to  us  !     No  martyr's  soul, 
No  hero  slain  in  righteous  wars, 
No  raptured  saint  could  e'er  control 
A  holier  welcome  from  the  stars." 

Take  him,  ye  stars  !     Take  him  on  high 
To  your  vast  realms  of  boundless  space  ; 

But  once  he  turned  from  you  to  try 
His  name  on  martial  scrolls  to  trace. 

That  once  was  when  his  country's  call 
Said  danger  to  her  Hag  was  nigh ; 

And  then  her  banner's  stars  dimmed  all 
The  radiant  lights  which  gemmed  the  sky. 


WHY?  215 

Take  hiin,  loved  orbs  !     His  country's  life,  — 
Freedom  for  all,  —  for  these  he  wars ; 

For  these  he  welcomed  bloody  strife, 
And  followed  in  the  wake  of  Mars. 


WHY? 

BY   RICHARD    STORRS   WILLIS. 

rpWENTY  millions  held  at  bay  ! 

Why,  Northmen,  why  ? 
Less  than  half  maintain  the  day ! 

Why,  Northmen,  why  ? 
With  the  sturdy  iron  will, 
With  the  pluck,  the  dash,  the  skill, 
With  the  blood  of  Bunker  Hill,  — 

Why,  Northmen,  why  ? 

Standing  yet  are  Sumter's  walls,  — 

Why,  Northmen,  why  ? 
Slumbering  yet  th'  avenging  balls ! 

Why,  Northmen,  why? 
Charleston  left  to  scoff  at  ease ! 
Richmond  vaunting  as  it  please  ! 
Traitor-taunts  on  every  breeze  !  — 

Why,  Northmen,  why  ? 


216  WHY? 

Hear  our  wounded  eagle  wail ! 

Why,  Statesmen,  why  V 
See  our  spangled  banner  trail ! 

Why,  Statesmen,  why  ? 
Coward  England  mocks  amain  ! 
Courtly  Paris  shrugs  disdain  ! 
Cordial  Russia  throbs  with  pain  !  — 

Why,  Statesmen,  why  ? 

By  this  fierce,  but  fruitless  fight, 

On  !  Leaders,  on  ! 
By  your  waste  of  loyal  might, 

On  !  Leaders,  on  ! 
By  the  blood  that  soaks  the  sod, 
By  the  Brave  that  bite  the  clod, 
By  the  souls  gone  up  to  God  !  — 

On  !  Leaders,  on  ! 

By  our  Past,  so  bright-renown'd, 

On  !  Northmen,  on  ! 
By  our  Future,  starry-erownM  !  — 

On  !  Northmen,  on  ! 
By  the  South,  deceived,  misled, 
By  our  Hundred  Thousand  Dead, 
Who  for  South  and  North  have  bled  ! 

On  !  Northmen,  on  ! 

December,  1882 


WHEN  THE  GREAT  REBELLION'S  OVER.  217 
WHEN  THE  GREAT  REBELLION  'S   OVER. 

ANONYMOUS. 

/^LIMBED  the  baby  on  her  knee, 
With  an  airy  childish  grace  ; 

Prattled  in  her  lovely  face,  — 
"  When  will  papa  come  to  me  ?  " 

"  Papa  ?  "  soft  the  mother  cried  — 
"  Papa  !  ah  !  the  naughty  rover  ! 

Sweet,  my  pet,  he  '11  come  to  thee 
When  the  great  Rebellion 's  over  ! " 

"  Mamma  once  had  rosy  cheeks, 

Danced  and  sang  a  merry  tune  ; 

Now  she  rocks  me  'neath  the  moon, 
Sits  and  sighs,  but  scarcely  speaks." 

Sad  the  smile  the  mother  wore  :  — 
"  Sweet,  mamma  has  lost  her  lover, 

She  will  blush  and  sing  no  more 
Till  the  great  Rebellion  9a  over ! 

"  Till  the  hush  of  peace  shall  come, 
Like  a  quiet  fall  of  snow, 
And  the  merry  troops  shall  go 

Marching  back  to  hearts  at  home." — 
"  Papa  —  home  ?  "  the  baby  lisped, 


218  WHEN  THE  GREAT  REBELLION 'jS  OVER. 

Balmy  breathed  as  summer  clover ; 

"  Yes,  my  darling,  home  at  last, 

When  the  sad  Rebellion  's  over  !  " 

Entered  at  the  open  door, 

While  the  mother  soothed  her  child, 
One  who  neither  spoke  nor  smiled, 

Standing  on  the  sunny  iloor. 

Wistful  eyes  met  mournful  eyes, 

Hope  took  tlight,  like  airy  plover, 
Ah  !  poor  heart,  thou  'It  wait  in  vain 

Till  the  great  Rebellion  'a  over  ! 

Heart,  poor  heart !  too  weak  to  save  ; 

Vain  your  tears,  —  your  longings  vain,  — 
Summer  winds  and  summer  rain 

Beat  already  on  his  grave  ! 
From  the  flag  upon  his  breast, 

(Truer  breast  it  ne'er  shall  cover  ! ) 
From  its  mouldering  colors,  wet 
With  his  blood,  shall  spring  beget 
Lily,  rose,  and  violet, 

And  wreath  of  purple  clover; 
With  the  flag  upon  his  breast, 

They  have  hid  away  your  lover  ;  — 
Weep  not,  wail  not  !  let  him  rest, 
Having  bravely  stood  the  test, 


A  CHEER  FOR    THE  BRAVE.  210 

He  shall  rank  among  the  blest, 
When  the  <zreat  Rebellion  's  over  ! 


A  CHEER  FOR  THE   BRAVE. 

BY   CAROLINE   A.    HOWARD. 

IFT   up  the    starred    banner,  the    pride   of  a 

nation, 
Whose  bulwarks  are  hearts  firm  and  true  as  tried 
steel ; 
Bear  the  standard  aloft  with  joyous  elation, 
The  serpent  is  writhing  'neath  Liberty's  heel ! 

Blest  ensign  of  Freedom,  too  long  has  thy  glory 
Been   dimmed  by  the   blight   of   disunion   and 
shame ; 

Too  long  has  rebellion,  black-hearted  and  gory, 
Ensanguined  our  land  and  dishonored  our  name  ! 


e 


Up  Freedom  !  new  courage  !  the  struggle  is  closing ! 

Strike  home  for  the  right  and  forget  not  the  brave, 
Who,  righting  and  dying,  forever  repose  in 

The  heart  of  their  country,  the  soldier's  true  grave. 

Be  patient,  vet  rest  not,  nor  fear  the  dark  surges ; 
For  our  fathers  of  old  were  parted  the  seas ; 


220  OUR    COUNTRY'S   CALL. 

Each  wave  of  our  progress  the  foeman  submerges ; 
Then  our  cause  give  to  God,  and  our  Flag  to  the 
breeze. 


OUR  COUNTRY'S   CALL. 

BY   JOHN    PIERPONT. 

1%/TEN  who  plough  your  granite  peaks, 

O'er  whose  head  your  Eagle  shrieks, 
And  for  aye  of  Freedom  speaks, 

Hear  your  country's  call ! 
Swear,  each  loyal  mother's  son, 
Swear  "  Our  Country  shall  be  One  ! " 
Seize  your  sword,  or  bring  your  gun, 

Bayonet  and  ball ! 

For  the  land  that  bore  you  —  Arm  ! 
Shield  the  State  you  love  from  harm  I 
Catch,  and  round  you  Bpread,  the  alarm  ; 

Hear,  and  hold  your  breath  I 
Hark  !  the  hostile  horde  is  nigh  ! 
Sec,  the  storm  comes  roaring  by! 
Hear  and  heed  our  battle-cry, — 
"  Victory  or   Death  !  " 


OUR    COUNTRY'S   CALL.  221 

Sturdy  landsmen,  hearty  tars, 

Can  you  see  your  Stripes  and  Stars 

Flouted  by  the  three  broad  bars, 

And  cold-blooded  feel  ? 
There  the  rebel  banner  floats  ! 
Tyrants,  vanquished  by  your  votes, 
Spring,  like  bloodhounds,  at  your  throats : 

Let  them  bite  your  steel  ! 

With  no  traitor  at  their  head, 
By  no  braggart  coward  led, 
By  no  hero  caught  a-bed, 

While  he  dreamt  of  flight ; 
By  no  "  Young  Napoleons," 
Kept  at  bay  by  wooden  guns, 
Shall  our  brothers  and  our  sons, 

Be  held  back  from  fight ! 

Like  a  whirlwind  in  its  course, 
Shall  again  a  rebel  force, 
Jackson's  foot  or  Stuart's  horse, 

Pass  our  sleepy  posts  ; 
Roam,  like  Satan,  "  to  and  fro," 
And  our  Laggard  let  them  go  V 
No !  in  thunder  answer  —  "No  ! 

By  the  Lord  of  Hosts  !  " 


222  THE   OLD  SHIP    OF  STATE. 

With  the  Lord  of  Hosts  we  fight, 
For  his  Freedom,  Law,  and  Right, — 
Strike  for  these,  and  his  all-might 

Shall  with  victory  crown 
Loyal  brows,  alive  or  dead  ; 
Crush  each  crawling  Copperhead, 
And  in  bloody  battle  tread 

This  rebellion  down  ! 

Talk  of  "  Peace,"  in  hours  like  this  ? 

'T  is  Iscariot's  traitor  kiss,  — 

'T  is  the  Old  Serpent's  latest  hiss  ! 

Foil  his  foul  intrigue  ! 
Plant  your  heel  his  head  upon  ! 
Let  him  squirm  !  his  race  is  run  ! 
Noiv  to  keep  your  Country  one, 

Join  our  Union  League! 


THE  OLD  SHIP  OF  STATE. 

%  BY   DAVID    BARKER,   OF   EXETER,    ME. 

/VER  the  dark  and  gloomy  horizon  that  bounds 

her, 
Through  the  storm  and  the  night  and  the  hell  that 
surrounds  her, 


THE   OLD  SHIP    OF  STATE.  223 

I  can  see  with  a  faith  which  Immortals  have  given, 
Burning   words,  blazing   out    o'er   the   portals  of 
Heaven,  — 

«  She  will  live  !  " 

But  a  part  of  the  freight  which  our  forefathers 

gave  her 
We  must  cast  to  the  deep  yawning  waters  to  save 

her : 
TTis  the  chain  of  the  slave  we  must  fling  out  to  light 

her ; 
'T  is  the  brand  and  the  whip  we  must  yield  up  to 

right  her. 

She  will  live  ! 

Clear  the  decks  of  the  curse  !     If  opposed  by  the 

owner, 
Hurl  the  wretch  to  the  wave,  as  they  hurled  over 

Jonah  ; 
With  a   "  Freedom  to  all ! "  gleaming  forth  from 

our  banner, 
Let  the  tyrant  yet  learn  we  have  freemen  to  man 

her. 

She  will  live  ! 

She  will  live  while  a  billow  lies  swelling  before  her, 
She  will  live  while  the  blue  arch  of  heaven  bends 
o'er  her, 


224  BATTLE-HYMN   OF    THE  REPUBLIC. 

While  the  name  of  a  Christ  to  the  fallen  we  cherish, 
Till  the  hopes  in  the  breast  of  humanity  perish,  — 

She  will  live  ! 


BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

BY   MRS.    JULIA   WARD    HOWE. 

"1VTINE  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming 

1>X  of  the  Lord  ; 

He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes 

of  wrath  are  stored  ; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible 

swift  sword  : 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen   Him  in  the  watchfires  of  a  hundred 

circling  camps ; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening 

dews  and  damps ; 
I  have  read  I  lis  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and 

flaring  lamps  : 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnished  rows 
of  steel : 


"  OUT  IN  THE   COLD:1  225 

"  As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my 

grace  shall  deal ; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent 

with  his  heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never 
call  retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judg- 
ment-seat ; 

Oh  !  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him  !  be  jubilant, 
my  feet ! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across 

the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you 

and  me ; 
As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make 

men  free, 

While  God  is  marching  on. 


"  OUT  IN  THE  COLD." 
TXjTHAT  is  the  threat?     "  Leave  her  out  in  the 


cold!" 

15 


226  "OUT  IN   THE   COLDr 

Loyal  New  England,  too  loyally  bold: 
Hater  of  treason,  —  ah  !  that  is  her  erime  ! 
Lover  of  Freedom,  —  too  true  for  her  time  ! 

Out  in  the  cold  ?     Oh,  she  chooses  the  place, 
Rather  than  share  in  a  sheltered  disgrace ; 
Rather  than  sit  at  a  cannibal  feast ; 
Rather  than  mate  with  the  blood-reeking  beast ! 

Leave  out  New  England  ?    And  what  will  she  do, 

Stormy-browed  sisters,  forsaken  by  you  ? 

Sit  on  her  Rock,  her  desertion  to  weep  ? 

Or,  like  a  Sappho,  plunge  thence  in  the  deep  ? 

No  ;  our  New  England  can  put  on  no  airs,  — 
Nothing  will  change  the  calm  look  that  she  wears: 
Life  's  a  rough  lesson  she  learned  from  the  first, 
Up  into  wisdom  through  poverty  nursed. 

Not  more  distinct  on  his  tables  of  stone 

Was  the  grand  writing  to  Moses  made  known, 

Than  is  engraven,  in  letters  of  light, 

On  her  foundations  the  One  Law  of  Right. 

She  is  a  Christian :  she  smothers  her  ire, 
Trims  up  the  candle,  and  stirs  the  home  fire, 
Thinking  and  working  and  waiting  the  day 
When  her  wild  sisters  shall  leave  their  mad  play. 


"  OUT  IN  TEE   COLD."  227 

Out  in  the  cold,  where  the  free  winds  are  blowing ; 
Out  in  the  cold,  where  the  strong  oaks  are  growing; 
Guards  she  all  growths  that  are  living  and  great,  — 

©  ©  ©  / 

Growths  to  rebuild  every  tottering  State. 

"  Notions  "  worth  heeding  to  shape  she  has  wrought, 

Lifted  and  fixed  on  the  granite  of  thought : 

©  © 

What  she  has  done  may  the  wide  world  behold  ! 
What  she  is  doing,  too,  out  in  the  cold ! 

Out  in  the  cold !  she  is  glad  to  be  there, 
Breathing  the  north  wind,  the  clear  healthful  air; 
Saved  from  the  hurricane  passions  that  rend 
Hearts  that  once  named  her  a  sister  and  friend. 

There  she  will  stay,  while  they  bluster  and  foam, 
Planning  their  comfort  when  they  shall  come  home  ; 
Building  the  Union  an  adamant  wall, 
Freedom-cemented,  that  never  can  fall. 

Freedom, — dear-bought  with  the  blood  of  her  sons, — 
See  the  red  current!  right  nobly  it  runs ! 
Life  of  her  life  is  not  too  much  to  give 
For  the  dear  Nation  she  taught  how  to  live. 

Vainly  they  shout  to  you,  sturdy  Northwest ! 

'Tis  her  own  heart  that  beats  warm  in  your  breast ; 


228  SONNET. 

Sisters  in  nature  as  well  as  in  name ; 
Sisters  in  loyalty,  true  to  that  claim. 

Freedom  your  breath  is,  O  broad-shouldered  North ! 
Turn  from  the  subtle  miasma  gone  forth 
Out  of  the  South  land,  from  Slavery's  fen, 
Battening  demons,  but  poisoning  men  ! 

Still  on  your  Rock,  my  New  England,  sit  sure, 
Keeping  the  air  for  the  great  country  pure  ! 
There  you  the  "  wayward  "  ones  yet  shall  enfold : 
There  they  will  come  to  you,  out  in  the  cold  ! 


SONNET. 

"TIIE   VOICE  WITHOUT  AN  ECHO." 

BY    C.    K.   TUCKERMAN. 

When  that  distinguished  defender  of  constitutional  liberty, 
John  Bright,  M.  P.,  of  England,  uttered  his  eloquent  senti- 
ments in  behalf  of  the  Federal  Government,  the  "  London  Times  " 
pronounced  his  address  u  a  voice  without  an  echo." 

A  VOICE  went  up  in  England,  and  was  crowned 
"^  With  dust  and  ashes.    Baffled,  blinded,  lone, 

It  sunk  upon  the  city's  pavement-stone, 
Where    trampling    Commerce    all    its    utterance 
drowned. 


THE  PRAYER   OF  A  NATION.         229 

Anon,  by  windy  Prejudice  'twas  blown 

Into  the  stately  chambers  of  the  throne  — 
For  Parliamentary  wisdom  once  renowned  ; 
But  there  by  red-taped  Sophistry  't  was  bound,  — 

Bleeding  and  helpless,  friendless  and  alone. 

For  England  knew  not  what  she  yet  shall  own  — 

That    where    the  wings   of  Justice    once    have 
flown, 
They  still  shall  fly,  though  beaten  to  the  ground, 

Bearing  through  Error's  depths  Truth's  trumpet- 
tone, 

Vital  as  lirrht  and  boundless  as  the  zone. 


THE   PRAYER  OF  A  NATION. 

BY   WILLIAM    II.    BURLEIGH. 

f^\  OD  of  our  fathers,  hear  our  earnest  cry  ! 

Our  hope,  our  strength,  our  refuge  is  with 
Thee ! 
Confound  our  foes  and  make  their  legions  fly  ! 
Strengthen  our  hosts  and  give  them  victory  ! 
Victory  —  victory  — 
Oh,  God  of  Armies  !  give  us  victory  ! 

Not  for  exemption  from  the  toil  and  loss, 

The  pains,  the  woes,  the  horrors  of  the  strife, 


230  THE  PRAYER    OF  A  NATION. 

But  that  with  strong  hearts  we  may  bear  the  cross, 
And  welcome  death  to  save  our  nation's  life  : 
Victory  —  victory  — 
Oh,  God  of  Battles  !  give  us  victory ! 

For  this  no  costliest  gift  would  we  withhold  ; 

For  this  we  count  not  dear  our  loved  repose, 
Our  teeming  harvests,  and  our  gathered  gold, 
Our  commerce  fanned  by  every  wind  that  blows. 
Victory  —  victory  — 
God  of  our  fathers  !  give  us  victory  ! 

Sons,  brothers,  sires,  our  bravest  and  our  best,  — 

The  dearest  treasure  love  has  sanctified,  — 
These  have  gone  forth  at  Liberty's  behest, 
And  on  her  altars  have  augustly  died  ! 
Victory  —  victory  — 
God  of  our  martyrs  !  give  us  victory  ! 

God  !    have  they  poured  their  priceless  blood  in 
vain  ? 
Shall  treason  triumph  in  our  nation's  fall  ? 
Shall  Slavery  weld  once  more  her  broken  chain, 
And  o'er  a  prostrate  land  hold  carnival  ? 
Victory  —  victory  — 
Oh,  God  of  Freedom !  give  us  victory ! 


THE  PRAYER    OF  A  NATION.  231 

Nerve  with  new  strength  the  patriot  soldier's  arm  ! 

Fill  with  new  zeal  the  hero-souls  that  stand, 
Pillars  of  fire,  to  save  from  deadliest  harm 

Their  children's  birthright  in  this  goodly  land  ! 
Victory  —  victory  — 
God  of  our  heroes  !  give  us  victory  ! 

For  the  sad  millions  of  the  sroanins  earth, 

DO' 

Helpless  and  crushed  beneath  oppression's  rod,  — 
For  every  hope  that  hallows  home  and  hearth,  — 
For  heaven-born  Liberty,  the  Child  of  God,  — 
Victory  —  victory  — 
God  of  the  nations  !  give  us  victory  ! 

From  war's  red  hell,  involved  in  smoke  and  flame, 

From  up-piled  altars  of  our  noblest  dead, 
We  cry  to  Thee  !     Oh,  for  Thy  glorious  name, 
Make  bare  Thine  arm  and  smite  our  foes  with 
dread  ! 

Victory  —  victory  — 
Oh,  God  of  Battles  !  give  us  victory  ! 


232  THE    WORD. 

THE  WORD. 

BY   FORCE YTHE    WILLSON. 

ARM! 

This  is  the  trumpet-peal ! 
Ann  ! 
Arm  for  the  Commonweal ! 
Arm  !  Arm  ! 

Arm ! 
Arm  without  any  words  ! 

Arm  ! 
This  is  the  time  for  swords ! 

Arm  !  Arm  ! 

Arm  to  confront  the  foe 

Arm ! 
Arm  to  return  the  blow  ! 

Arm  ! 

Arm  ere  it  is  too  late ! 

Arm  ! 
Arm  or  be  desolate  ! 

Arm  ! 

Arm  for  your  country  and  fly  to  defend  her, 
Arm  ! 


THE   WORD.  233 

Arm  now  or  never  !  Arm !  or  surrender  ! 
Arm  !  Arm  ! 

Arm    for    the    Commonwealth,  —  Arm   for    your 

Mother,  — 
Your  children,  your  firesides,  and  for  each  other ! 
Arm  !  Arm  ! 

Arm  for  your  Fatherhood  ! 

Arm  for  your  Motherhood  ! 
Arm  for  your  Sisterhood  ! 
Arm  for  your  Brotherhood  ! 
Arm  for  Life,  —  Liberty,  —  and   for   all    other 
good ! 

Arm !  Arm  ! 

Arm,  Arm,  to  do  and  dare  !  . 

Arm  for  the  Love  you  bear ! 

Arm  for  the  Debonair  ! 
Arm  for  the  Heart  that  you  live  but  to  cherish  ! 

Arm  for  the  Free  and  Fair  — 

Arm  for  the  Light  and  Air ! 
This    is    the    last    Appeal,  —  this  your    Country's 
cry,  — 
This  is  your  mother's  prayer ! 

—  "  Arm,  My  Beloved  ones ! 

Arm,  My  Beloved  Sons ! 
Arm,  I  implore  you,  and  strike  till  you  perish !  " 


234  THE  PRESENT   CRISIS. 

THE  PRESENT   CRISIS. 

BY   JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

TXTHEN  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through 
the  broad  earth's  aching  breast 

Runs  a  thrill  of  joy  prophetic,  trembling  on  from 
East  to  West ; 

And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels  the  soul 
within  him  climb 

To  the  awful  verge  of  manhood,  as  the  energy  sub- 
lime 

Of  a  century  bursts  full  blossomed  on  the  thorny 
stem  of  Time. 

Through  the  walls  of  hut  and  palace  shoots  the  in- 
stantaneous throe, 

When  the  travail  of  the  Ages  wrings  earth's  sys- 
tems to  and  fro  ; 

At  the  birth  of  each  new  Era,  with  a  recognizing 
start, 

Nation  wildlv  looks  on  nation,  standing  with  mute 
lips  apart, 

And  glad  Truth's  vet  mightier  man-child  leaps  be- 
neath the  Future's  heart. 

For  mankind  are  one  in  spirit,  and  an  instinct  bears 
along, 


THE  PRESENT  CRISIS.  235 

Round  the  earth's  electric  circle,  the  swift  flash  of 

Right  or  Wrong ; 
Whether  conscious  or  unconscious,  yet  humanity's 

vast  frame, 
Through  its  ocean-sundered  fibres,  feels  the  gush 

of  joy  or  shame  ; 
In  the  gain  or  loss  of  one  race,  all  the  rest  have 

equal  claim. 

Once,  to  every  man  and  nation,  comes  the  moment 

to  decide, 
In  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood,  for  the  good 

or  evil  side ; 
Some  great  cause,  God's  new  Messiah,  offering  each 

the  bloom  or  blight, 
Farts  the  goats  upon  the  left  hand,  and  the  sheep 

upon  the  right,  — 
And  the  choice  goes  by  forever  'twixt  that  darkness 

and  that  light. 

Hast  thou  chosen,  O  my  people,  in  whose  party 

thou  shalt  stand, 
Ere  the  Doom  from  its  worn  sandals  shakes   the 

dust  against  our  land  ? 
Though  the  cause  of  Evil  prosper,  yet  't  is  Truth 

alone  is  strong ; 
And  albeit  she  wander  outcast  now,  I  see  around 

her  throng 


236  THE  PRESENT   CRISIS. 

Troops   of  beautiful,  tall  angels,  to  enshield  her 
from  all  wrong. 

We  see  dimly,  in  the  Present,  -what  is  small  and 

■what  is  great ; 
Slow  of  faith  how  weak  an  arm  may  turn  the  iron 

helm  of  Fate  ; 
But  the  soul  is  still  oracular,  —  amid  the  market's 

din, 
List  the  ominous  stern  whisper  from  the  Delphic 

cave  within  : 
"  They  enslave  their  children's  children,  who  make 

compromise  with  Sin  !  " 

Slavery,  the  earth-born  Cyclops,  fellest  of  the  giant 

brood, 
Sons  of  brutish  Force  and  Darkness,  who   have 

drenched  the  earth  with  blood, 
Famished  in  his  self-made  desert,  blinded  by  our 

purer  day, 
Gropes  in  yet  unblasted  regions  for  his  miserable 

prey : 
Shall  we  guide  his  gory  fingers  where  our  helpless 

children  play? 

'T  is  as  easy  to  be  heroes,  as  to  sit  the  idle  slaves 
Of   a  legendary  virtue  carved  upon   our    fathers' 

graves  ; 


THE  PRESENT    CRISIS.  237 

Worshippers  of  light  ancestral  make  the  present 

lijjht  a  crime. 
Was    the    Mayflower    launched    by    cowards  ?  — 

steered  by  men  behind  their  time  ? 
Turn  those  tracks  toward  Past,  or  Future,  that 

make  Plymouth  Rock  sublime  ? 

They  were  men  of  present  valor,  —  stalwart  old 

iconoclasts ; 
Unconvinced  by  axe  or  gibbet  that  all  virtue  was 

the  Past's ; 
But  we  make  their  truth  our  falsehood,  thinking 

that  has  made  us  free, 
Hoarding  it  in  mouldy  parchments,  while  our  tender 

spirits  flee 
The  rude  grasp  of  that  great  Impulse  which  drove 

them  across  the  sea. 

New  occasions   teach   new  duties !     Time   makes 

ancient  good  uncouth  ; 
They  must  upward  still,  and  onward,  who  would 

keep  abreast  of  Truth  ; 
Lo,  before  us  gleam  her  camp-fires  !  we  ourselves 

must  Pilgrims  be, 
Launch  our  Mayflower,  and  steer  boldly  through 

the  desperate  winter  sea, 
Nor  attempt  the  Future's  portal  with   the  Past's 

blood-rusted  key. 


238  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

JANUARY    FIRST,    EIGHTEEN    HUNDRED    AND    SIXTY- 
THREE. 

BY   W.    D.    GALLAGHER. 

O  TAND  like  an  anvil,  when  \  is  beaten 

With  the  full  vigor  of  the  smith's  right  arm ! 
Stand  like  the  noble  oak-tree,  when  't  is  eaten 
By  the  Saperda  and  his  ravenous  swarm  ! 
For  many  smiths  will  strike  the  ringing  blows 
Ere  the  red  drama  now  enacting  close  ; 
And  human  insects,  gnawing  at  thy  fame, 
Conspire  to  bring  thy  honored  head  to  shame. 

Stand  like  the  firmament,  upholden 

By  an  invisible  but  Almighty  hand  ! 
He  whomsoever  justice  doth  embolden, 

Unshaken,  unseduced,  una  wed  shall  stand. 
Invisible  support  is  mightier  far, 
With  noble  aims,  than  walls  of  granite  are ; 
And  simple  consciousness  of  justice  gives 
Strength  to  a  purpose  while  that  purpose  lives. 

Stand  like  the  rock  that  looks  defiant 

Far  o'er  the  surging  seas  that  lash  its  form  ! 

Composed,  determined,  watchful,  self-reliant, 
Be  master  of  thyself,  and  rule  the  storm ! 


TEE  PROCLAMATION.  239 

And  thou  shalt  soon  behold  the  bow  of  peace 
Span  the  broad  heavens,  and  the  wild  tumult  cease  ; 
And  see  the  billows,  with  the  clouds  that  meet, 
Subdued  and  calm,  come  crouching  to  thy  feet. 

Kentucky,  December,  1862. 


s 


THE  PROCLAMATION. 

BY   JOHN   G.   WHITTIER. 

AINT  Patrick,  slave  to  Milcho  of  the  herds 
Of  Ballymena,  sleeping,  heard  these  words 
u  Arise,  and  flee 
Out  from  the  land  of  bondage,  and  be  free  ! " 

Glad  as  a  soul  in  pain,  who  hears  from  heaven 
The  angels  singing  of  his  sins  forgiven, 

And,  wondering,  sees 
His  prison  opening  to  their  golden  keys, 
He  rose  a  Man  who  laid  him  down  a  Slave, 
Shook  from  his  locks  the  ashes  of  the  grave, 

And  outward  trod 
Into  the  glorious  liberty  of  God. 

He  cast  the  symbols  of  his  shame  away  ; 
And  passing  where  the  sleeping  Milcho  lay, 


240  TEE  PROCLAMATION, 

Though  back  and  limb 
Smarted  with   wrong,  he   prayed,  "  God   pardon 
him ! " 

So  went  he  forth :  but  in  God's  time  he  came 
To  light  on  Hilline's  hills  a  holy  flame ; 

And,  dying,  gave 
The  land  a  Saint  that  lost  him  as  a  Slave. 

O,  dark,  sad  millions,  patiently  and  dumb 
Waiting  for  God,  your  hour,  at  last,  has  come, 

And  Freedom's  song 
Breaks  the  long  silence  of  your  night  of  wrong  ! 

Arise,  and  flee  !  shake  off  the  vile  restraint 
Of  ages  !  but,  like  Ballymena's  saint, 

The  oppressor  spare, 
Heap  only  on  his  head  the  coals  of  prayer. 

Go  forth,  like  him  !  like  him  return  again, 
To  bless  the  land  whereon,  in  bitter  pain, 

Ye  toiled  at  first, 
And  heal  with  Freedom  what  your  Slavery  cursed. 


AN  APPEAL.  241 

AN   APPEAL. 

BY   OLIVER    WENDELL   HOLMES. 

ISTEN,  young  heroes !  your  country  is  calling  ! 
Time  strikes  the  hour  for  the  brave  and  the 
true  ! 
Now,  while  the  foremost  are  fighting  and  falling, 
Fill  up  the  ranks  that  have  opened  for  you ! 

You  whom  the  fathers  made  free  and  defended, 
Stain  not  the  scroll  that  emblazons  their  fame  ! 

ITou  whose  fair  heritage  spotless  descended, 
Leave  not  your  children  a  birthright  of  shame  ! 

Stay  not  for  questions  while  Freedom  stands  gasp- 
ing ! 
Wait  not  till  Honor  lies  wrapped  in  his  pall ! 
Brief  the  lips'  meeting  be,  swift  the  hands'  clasp- 
ing,— 
"  Off  for  the  wars  !  "  is  enough  for  them  all. 

Break  from  the  arms  that  would  fondly  caress  you  ! 

Hark !  'tis  the  bugle-blast,  sabres  are  drawn  ! 
Mothers  shall  pray  for  you,  fathers  shall  bless  you, 
Maidens    shall    weep    for   you   when    you   are 
gone ! 
16 


242  AN  APPEAL. 

Never  or  now  !  cries  the  blood  of  a  nation, 

Poured  on  the  turf  where  the  red  ro6e  should 
bloom ; 

Now  is  the  day  and  the  hour  of  salvation,  — 
Never  or  now !  peals  the  trumpet  of  doom  ! 

Never  or  now  !  roars  the  hoarse-throated  cannon 
Through  the  black  canopy  blotting  the  skies  ; 

Never  or  now  !  flaps  the  shell-blasted  pennon 
O'er  the  deep  ooze  where  the  Cumberland  lies ! 

From  the  foul  dens  where  our  brothers  are  dying, 
Aliens  and  foes  in  the  land  of  their  birth,  — 

From  the  rank  swamps  where  our  martyrs  are  lying 
Pleading  in  vain  for  a  handful  of  earth,  — 

From  the  hot  plains  where  they  perish  outnumbered, 
Furrowed  and  ridged  by  the  battle-field's  plough, 

Comes  the  loud  summons ;  too  long  you  have  slum- 
bered, 
Hear  the  last  Angel-trump  —  Never  or  Now  ! 


THE  NEW  REVEILLE.  243 

THE  NEW  REVEILLE. 

BY   WILLIAM   O.    BOURNE. 

/^OME   from  the  North,  0  freeman  !    Now  or 
never ! 

Clothed  in  the  panoply  of  right  and  power ; 
The  foe  is  striving  with  a  bold  endeavor 

To  win  the  triumph  in  the  noontide  hour; 
Come  with  the  earnest  of  the  blazing  future  ! 

Come  with  the  burdens  of  the  storied  past ! 
Come  with  exultings  in  the  mighty  present, 

And  on  the  altar  all  your  tribute  cast. 

Come  from  the  pine-clad  hills  and  furthest  river, 

That  catch  the  rising  of  the  eastern  sun, 
With  sacred  vows  and  giant  will  deliver 

From  treason's  tread  the  land  of  Washington. 
Come  from  the  hills  where  fountains  pure  and  gush- 
ing 

Flow  with  the  emblem  of  a  better  life ; 
Or,  like  the  cataract  in  thunders  rushing, 

Press  on  and  conquer  in  the  holy  strife. 

Come  from  the  loom  where  artist-hands  are  weaving 
Their  rare  devices  in  the  warp  and  woof; 

The  stronger  web  in  Time's  great  loom  is  leaving 
A  mighty  future  to  a  tyrant's  hoof; 


241  THE  NEW  REVEILLE. 

With  living  threads  that  beat  with  love's  pulsations, 
And  glow  with  images  of  Freedom's  fire, 

Weave  now  the  destiny  of  coming  nations, 
That  else  shall  gather  at  the  solemn  pyre  ! 

Come  from  the  fields,  O  brave  and  sturdy  yeoman 

Come  from  the  hearthstones  where  ye  love  to 
sing! 
Now  is  the  hour  to  meet  the  bloody  foeman, 

Then  back  victorious  all  your  laurels  bring  ! 
The  songs  of  peace  are  for  the  day  of  triumph, 

When  Freedom's  harvest  all  is  gathered  in. 
Then  come !  on  wider  fields  of  truth  and  duty, 

Reap  long  and  well  amid  the  battle  din. 

Come  from  the  Keystone  in  the  arch  of  Union  ! 

Bring  from  the  dark  mines  the  treasures  lying 
deep  ! 
The  fires  grow  hotter  in  the  nation's  furnace, 

With  fiercer  blasts  that  will  not  let  us  sleep  ; 
With  stalwart  arms  our  heroes  now  are  moulding 

Pillars  of  iron  for  our  temple  dome, 
Which  now  we  forge,  while  other  lands,  beholding, 

Hear  the  great  anvil  ring  in  Freedom's  home. 

Come  from  the  mountain,  lake,  and  fertile  prairie, 
Blooming  in  verdure  where  the  freemen  toil ; 


TO    CANAAN!  245 

Strike  for  the  waters  that  shall  onward  carry 
Forth  to  the  world  the  riches  of  your  soil ; 

Strike  for  the  freedom  of  the  mighty  river  ! 
Strike  for  the  glory  of  your  Western  land  ! 

Strike,  freemen  !  till  victorious  blows  shall  shiver 
All  the  base  foes  that  in  your  pathway  stand. 

Come  from  the  South,  O  well-tried  sons  of  sorrow! 

Come  to  the  help  of  loyal  men  and  true  ! 
We  fight  and  labor  for  the  bright  to-morrow, 

When  vows  of  love  the  nation  shall  renew  ! 
Come  from  the  North !  for  so  we  sware  forever ! 

Come  from  the  East,  O  sons  of  Pilgrim  sires ! 
Come  from  the  West,  O  brother  !  Now  or  Never  I 

While  Freedom  kindles  up  immortal  fires. 


TO  CANAAN! 

A  SONG  OF  THE  SIX  HUNDRED  THOUSAND.* 

BY    OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES. 

TXTHERE  are  you  going,  soldiers, 

With  banner,  gun,  and  sword  ? 
We  're  marching  South  to  Canaan 
To  battle  for  the  Lord  ! 

"*  See  Numbers  i.  46,  4G. 


246  TO    CANAAN! 

What  Captain  leads  your  armies 

Along  the  rebel  coasts  ? 
The  Mighty  One  of  Israel, 
His  name  is  Lord  of  Hosts  ! 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  blow  before  the  heathen  walls 
The  trumpets  of  the  North  ! 

What  flag  is  this  you  carry 

Along  the  sea  and  shore  ? 
The  same  our  grandsires  lifted  up,  — 

The  same  our  father's  bore  ! 
In  many  a  battle's  tempest 

It  shed  the  crimson  rain, — 
What  God  has  woven  in  His  loom 
Let  no  man  rend  in  twain ! 

To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  plant  upon  the  rebel  towers 
The  banners  of  the  North  ! 

What  troop  is  this  that  follows, 

All  armed  with  picks  and  spades? 

These  are  the  swarthy  bondsmen,  — 
The  iron-skin  brigades ! 

They  '11  pile  up  Freedom's  breastwork, 


TO    CANAAN!  247 

They'll  scoop  out  rebels'  graves ; 
Who  then  will  be  their  owner 

And  march  them  off  for  slaves  V 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  strike  upon  the  captive's  chain 
The  hammers  of  the  North  ! 

What  song  is  this  you  're  singing  ? 

The  same  that  Israel  sung 
When  Moses  led  the  mighty  choir, 

And  Miriam's  timbrel  rung  ! 
To  Canaan  !     To  Canaan  ! 

The  priests  and  maidens  cried ; 
To  Canaan  !     To  Canaan  ! 
The  people's  voice  replied. 

To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 

The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 

To  thunder  through  its  adder  dens 

The  anthems  of  the  North ! 

When  Canaan's  hosts  are  scattered, 

And  all  her  walls  lie  flat, 
What  follows  next  in  order  ? 

—  The  Lord  will  see  to  that ! 
We  '11  break  the  tyrant's  sceptre,  — 

We  '11  build  the  people's  throne,  — 


248    THE  PATRIOT  GIRL    TO  II KR  LOVER. 

When  half  the  world  is  Freedom's 
Then  all  the  world  's  our  own  ! 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  sweep  the  rebel  threshing-floors, 
A  whirlwind  from  the  North  ! 


THE  PATRIOT  GIRL  TO  HER  LOVER. 

BY    GEORGE   VANDENHOFF. 

IT  ARK  !  the  trumpet  is  sounding,  it 's  war-note  I 
-tl  hear; 

Arm,  arm,  and  go  forth  my  own  Knight; 
And  though  my  hand  tremble,  my  eye  drop  a  tear, 

I  '11  gird  on  your  sword  for  the  fight ! 

O  deem  you  the  maid  whose  affection  you  claim, 

Though  loving  as  I  have  loved  you, 
Could  bear  without  blushing  a  recreant's  name,     » 

To  his  country,  to  honor,  untrue  ? 

You  have  vowed  that  your  heart  and  your  hopes 
are  in  me,  — 

That  you  live  in  the  light  of  my  eyes  ; 
Let  their  lovcbeam  your  beacon  to  victory  be,  — 

My  hand  of  your  valor  the  prize  ! 


WHO'S  READY.  249 

Would  you  win  me  ?     Be  worthy  of  her  who  would 
die 
Ere  be  link'd  to  a  coward  or  slave  ; 
And  yielding  her  heart's  blood  would  breathe  but 
one  sigh, — 
A  prayer  her  dear  country  to  save. 

Go  forth  then  and  conquer ;  be  strong  in  the  fight ; 

Think  of  me,  and />u£  heart  in  each  blow  . 
Strike  for  Country,  for  Union,  for  Love,  and  for 
Right, 

And  down  with  the  insolent  foe  ! 


WHO'S  READY? 

BY    EDNA    DEAN    PROCTOR. 

f^i  OD  help  us  !    Who  's  ready  ?    There  's  danger 

^     before! 

Who 's  armed  and  who 's  mounted  ?     The  foe  's  at 

the  door  ! 
The  smoke  of  his  cannon  hangs  black  o'er  the  plain  ; 
His  shouts  ring  exultant  while  counting  our  slain  ; 
And    Northward    and    Northward    he  presses  his 

line,  — 
Who  's  ready  ?     O  forward  !  —  for  yours  and  for 

mine  ! 


250  WHO'S  READY f 

No  halting,  no  discord,  the  moments  are  Fates  ; 
To  shame  or  to  glory  they  open  the  gates  ! 
There  's  all  we  hold  dearest  to  lose  or  to  win  ; 
The  web  of  the  future  to-day  we  must  spin  ; 
And  bid  the  hours  follow  with  knell  or  with  chime,  — 
Who  's  ready  V     O  forward  !  —  while  yet  there  is 
time  ! 

Lead  armies  or  councils,  —  be  soldier  a-field, — 
Alike,  so  your  valor  is  Liberty's  shield  ! 
Alike,  so  you  strike  when  the  bugle-notes  call, 
For  Country,  for  Fireside,  for  Freedom  to  All  ! 
The  blows  of  the  boldest  will  carry  the  day, — 
Who's  ready  ?    O  forward  !  —  there  's  death  in  de- 
lay ! 

Earth's  noblest  are  praying,  at  home  and  o'er  sea,  — 
"  God  keep  the  great  nation  united  and  free  !  " 
Her  tyrants  watch,  eager  to  leap  at  our  life, 
If  once  we  should  falter  or  faint  in  the  strife  ; 
Our  trust  is  unshaken,  though  le<>ions  assail. — 
Who's  ready  V     O  forward!  —  and  Right  shall  pre- 
vail ! 

W'ho's  ready  ?  "All  ready  !"  undaunted  we  cry  ; 
11  For  Country,  for  Freedom,  we  '11  fight  till  we  die 
No  traitor,  at  midnight,  shall  pierce  us  in  rest; 


THE  SNOW  AT  FREDERICKSBURG.    251 

No  alien,  at  noonday,  shall  stab  us  abreast ; 
The  God  of  our  Fathers  is  guiding  us  still,  — 
All  forward  !  we  're  ready,  and  conquer  we  will ! " 


THE   SNOW  AT  FREDERICKSBURG. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THRIFT  over  the  slopes  of  the  sunrise  land, 

Oh  wonderful,  wonderful  snow  ! 
Oh  !  pure  as  the  breast  of  a  virgin  saint, 

Drift  tenderly,  soft,  and  slow  ! 
Over  the  slopes  of  the  sunrise  land, 

And  into  the  haunted  dells 
Of  the  forests  of  pine,  where  the  robbing  winds 

Are  tuning  their  memory  bells. 

Into  the  forests  of  sighing  pines, 

And  over  those  yellow  slopes, 
That  seem  but  the  work  of  the  cleaving  plough, 

That  cover  so  many  hopes  ! 
They  are  many  indeed,  and  straightly  made, 

Not  shapen  with  loving  care ; 
But  the  souls  let  out  and  the  broken  blades 

May  never  be  counted  there  ! 


25 2     THE  SNO W  AT  FREDERICKS!! URG. 

Fall  over  those  lonely  hero  graves, 

Oh  delicate,  dropping  snow  ! 
Like  the  blessing  of  God's  unfaltering  love 

On  the  warrior  heads  below  ! 
Like  the  tender  sigh  of  a  mother's  soul, 

As  she  waiteth  and  watcheth  for  One 
Who  will  never  come  back  from  the  sunrise  land 

When  this  terrible  war  is  done. 

And  here,  where  lieth  the  high  of  heart, 

Drift  —  white  as  the  bridal  veil 
That  will  never  be  borne  by  the  drooping  girl 

Who  sitteth  afar,  so  pale. 
Fall,  fast  as  the  tears  of  the  suffering  wife, 

Who  stretcheth  despairing  hands 
Out  to  the  blood-rich  battle-fields 

That  crimson  the  Eastern  sands. 

Fall  in  thy  virgin  tenderness, 

Oh  delicate  snow,  and  cover 
The  graves  of  our  heroes,  sanctified,  — • 

Husband  and  sou  and  lover  ! 
Drift  tenderly  over  those  yellow  slopes, 

And  mellow  our  deep  distress, 
And  put  us  in  mind  of  the  shriven  souls 

And  their  mantles  of  righteousness  ! 


BOSTON  HYMN.  253 

BOSTON  HYMN. 

BY   RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON. 

rpHE  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 

To  the  watching  Pilgrims  came, 
As  they  sat  by  the  sea-side, 
And  filled  their  hearts  with  flame. 

God  said,  —  I  am  tired  of  Kings, 
I  suffer  them  no  more ; 
Up  to  my  ear  the  morning  brings 
The  outrage  of  the  poor. 

Think  ye  I  made  this  ball 

A  field  of  havoc  and  war, 

Where  tyrants  great  and  tyrants  small 

Might  harry  the  weak  and  poor  ? 

My  angel,  — his  name  is  Freedom, — 
Choose  him  to  be  your  king ; 
He  shall  cut  pathways  east  and  west, 
Ami  fend  you  with  his  wing. 

Lo  !  I  uncover  the  land 
Which  I  hid  of  old  time  in  the  West, 
As  the  sculptor  uncovers  his  statue, 
When  he  has  wrought  his  best 


254  BOSTON  HYMN. 

I  show  Columbia,  of  the  rocks 
Which  dip  their  foot  in  the  seas, 
And  soar  to  the  air-borne  flocks 
Of  clouds,  and  the  boreal  fleece. 

I  will  divide  my  goods ; 
Call  in  the  wretch  and  slave : 
None  shall  rule  but  the  humble, 
And  none  but  toil  shall  have. 

I  will  have  never  a  noble, 
No  lineage  counted  great : 
Fishers  and  choppers  and  ploughmen 
Shall  constitute  a  State. 

Go,  cut  down  trees  in  the  forest, 
And  trim  the  strai^htest  boughs; 
Cut  down  trees  in  the  forest, 
And  build  me  a  wooden  house. 

Call  the  people  together, 
The  young  men  and  the  sires, 
The  digger  in  the  harvest-field, 
Hireling  and  him  that  hires. 

And  here  in  a  pine  State-house 
They  shall  choose  men  to  rule 


BOSTON  HYMN.  255 

In  every  needful  faculty,  — 
In  church  and  state  and  school. 

Lo,  now !  if  these  poor  men 

Can  govern  the  land  and  sea, 

And  make  just  laws  below  the  sun,  — 

As  planets  faithful  be. 

And  ye  shall  succor  men  ; 

*T  is  nobleness  to  serve  ; 

Help  them  who  cannot  help  again ; 

Beware  from  right  to  swerve. 

I  break  your  bonds  and  masterships, 
And  I  unchain  the  slave  : 
Free  be  his  heart  and  hand  henceforth, 
As  wind  and  wandering  wave. 

I  cause  from  every  creature 
His  proper  good  to  flow  : 
So  much  as  he  is  and  doeth, 
So  much  he  shall  bestow. 

But,  laying  his  hands  on  another 
To  coin  his  labor  and  sweat, 
He  goes  in  pawn  to  his  victim 
For  eternal  years  in  debt. 


256  BOSTON  HYMN. 

Pay  ransom  to  the  owner, 

And  fill  the  ba<r  to  the  brim  ! 

Who  is  the  owner  ?     The  slave  is  owner, 

And  ever  was.     Pay  him  ! 

O  North  !  give  him  beauty  for  rags, 
And  honor,  O  South  !  for  his  shame  ; 
Nevada  !  coin  thy  golden  crags 
With  Freedom's  image  and  name. 

Up  !  and  the  dusky  race 
That  sat  in  darkness  long,  — 
Be  swift  their  feet  as  antelopes, 
And  as  behemoth  strong. 

Come  East  and  West  and  North, 
By  races,  as  snow-flakes, 
And  carry  My  purpose  forth, 
Which  neither  halts  nor  shakes. 

My  will  fulfilled  shall  be, 
For,  in  daylight  or  in  dark, 
My  thunderbolt  has  eyes  to  see 
His  way  home  to  the  mark. 


TO  MY   CHILDREN.  257 

TO  MY  CHILDREN. 

BY   A    SOLDIER   IN  THE   ARMY. 

T\  ARLINGS  —  I  am  weary  pining  : 

Shadows  fall  across  my  way ; 
I  can  hardly  see  the  lining 
Of  the  clouds  — -  the  silver  lining, 
Turning  darkness  into  day. 

I  am  weary  of  the  sighing ; 

Moaning  —  wailing  through  the  air ; 
Breaking  hearts,  in  anguish  crying 
For  the  lost  ones  —  for  the  dying, 

Sobbing  anguish  of  despair. 

I  am  weary  of  the  fighting  : 

Brothers,  red  with  brother's  gore. 
Only,  that  the  wrong  we  're  righting,  — 
Truth  and  Honor's  battle  fi<rhtiii",  — 
I  would  draw  my  sword  no  more. 

I  am  pining,  dearest,  pining, 

For  your  kisses  on  my  cheek  ; 
For  your  dear  arms  round  me  twining ; 
For  your  soft  eyes  on  me  shining  ; 

For  your  lov'd  words  ;  darlings  —  speak  ! 
17 


258  THE  REFUGEE. 

Tell  me,  in  your  earnest  prattle, 
Of  the  olive  branch  and  dove  ; 

Call  me  from  the  cannon's  rattle  ; 

Take  my  thoughts  away  from  battle  ; 
Fold  me  in  your  dearest  love. 

Darlings  —  I  am  weary  pining  : 
Shadows  fall  across  my  way  ; 
I  can  hardly  see  the  lining 
Of  the  clouds  —  the  silver  lining, 
Turning  darkness  into  day. 


I 


THE  REFUGEE. 

RY   SAMUEL  ECKEL,   OF   EAST  TEXNES8KE. 

ONE  upon  the  mountain  summit, 
Watching  through  the  weary  night, 


For  the  cheering  heart-clow  glimmer 

Of  the  Union  camp-fire's  light  ; 

Starting  at  the  ilighest  rustle 

In  the  leaves  above  mv  head; 
Seeing  foes  in  every  shadow, 

AVhile  the  morning  light  I  dread  ; 


THE  REFUGEE.  259 

In  the  distance,  far  below  me, 

Tented  foes  I  dimly  trace  ; 
The  oppressors  of  my  children, 

And  the  tyrants  of  my  race. 

I  am  black,  —  I  sadly  know  it,  — 

And  for  that  I  am  a  slave ; 
But  I  have  a  soul  within  me 

That  will  live  beyond  the  grave. 

Oft  at  noon,  when  I've  been  sitting 

'Neath  some  shady  orange  tree, 
Every  breeze  would  whisper  to  me 

That  I  must,  I  would  be  free. 

Sadly  I  have  mourned  for  freedom, 

But  its  breath  I  never  drew  ; 
Sadly  mourn  I  for  my  children, 

They,  alas !  are  chattels  too. 

Look  !  the  morning  dawns  upon  me  ; 

In  the  distant  vale  afar, 
I  behold  a  banner  floating, 

I  can  see  each  stripe  and  star. 

There  I  '11  go  and  seek  protection  ; 
And  I  ask,  O  God,  of  Thee, 


260  THE  FIRST  FIRE. 

That  my  cherished  prayer  be  granted 
Make  oppressed  bondmen  free  ! 


THE   FIRST   FIRE. 

BY   JOHN   J.    TIATT. 

pvEAREST,  to-night  upon  our  hearth 

See  the  first  fire  of  Autumn  leap,  — 
The  first  that  we  with  festal  mirth 

For  loving  Memory  keep. 
Sweet  Fairy  of  the  Fireside,  come 
And  guard  our  altar-flame  of  Home  ! 

Without,  October  breathes  the  night, 
Cold  dews  below,  cold  stars  on  high ; 

The  chilly  cricket  sees  our  light 
Reach  welcoming  arms  a-nigh, 

And  sighs  to  sing  his  evening  song 

Upon  our  hearth  the  winter  long. 

Blithe  cricket !  welcome,  singing,  here  1 
I  half  recall  dead  Autumn's  cold, 

Half-close  my  eyes  to  dream,  my  dear, 
Their  sadness  vague  and  old  : 


THE  FIRST  FIRE.  261 

The  Fireside  Fairy  laughs  and  tries 
With  bursting  sparks  to  shell  my  eyes  ! 

Ill-timed  the  gay  conceit,  I  know  : 

On  the  dark  hills  that  near  us  lie, 
(The  Real  will  not,  need  not  go,) 

Beneath  the  Autumnal  sky 
Stand  battle-tents  that  everywhere 
Keep  ghostly  white  the  moonless  air. 

The  sentinel  walks  his  lonely  beat, 
The  soldier  slumbers  on  the  ground ; 

To  one,  hearth-glimmers  far  are  sweet,  — 
One  dreams  of  fireside  sound  ! 

From  unforgotten  doors  they  reach, 

Dear  sympathies,  more  dear  than  speech. 

I  think  of  all  the  homeless  woe, 

The  battle-winter  long ; 
Alas,  the  world the  hearth  's  a-glow  ! 

And  lo,  the  cricket's  song 
Within  !  the  Fairy's  minstrel  sinus 
Away  the  ghosts  of  saddest  things  ! 

The  fire-smile  keeps  our  walls  in  bloom  ;  — 

Home's  summer-light  a  flower,  I  deem ; 
And  look,  the  pictures  in  the  room, 


262  THE  FIRST  FIRE. 

How  beautiful !  a-gleam ; 
A  window  there  with  rose  and  bee,  — 
The  Olive-Dove  in  from  the  sea ! 

A  cottage  in  a  summer  land, 

And  one  whose  shadow  walks  before, 
(Snow-peaks  afar  in  sunset  stand)  ; 

Vines  flutter  o'er  the  door, 
Half-hiding  in  a  sunlit  place, 
But  cannot  hide  a  sunlit  face. 

And,  yonder,  bending  o'er  a  child, 
An  angel  with  a  yearning  grace, 

Rosy  with  fire-bloom  lingers  mild,  — 
A  mother's  tender  face  ! 

Her  wings  (the  boy  has  dreaming  eyes) 

Show  that  she  came  from  Paradise. 

Near  by,  the  same  ;  her  arms  about 
A  child  just  kissed  from  summer  she]) 

(Still  rocks  the  cradle)  :  laugh  and  shout 
Within  her  bosom  keep 

Sweet  echoes  dancing.     Which  is  best, 

The  anjrel,  blessing  —  mortal  blest? 

A  torrent  lost  in  rainbow  spray  ; 
A  flock  (its  shepherdess  the  moon) 


THE  FIRST  FIRE.  263 

Asleep  ;  the  laureate-lark  of  Day 

At  home  some  even  in  June ; 
Dear  humble  fancies  of  the  heart, 
When  Art  was  Love  in  love  with  Art ! 

Blithe  dance  the  flames  and  blest  are  we  ! 

Without,  the  funeral  of  the  year 
Is  preached  by  every  mounful  tree  : 

The  tree  in  blossom  here 
Knows  no  lost  leaves,  no  farewell  wing  — 
In  vain  will  Autumn  preach  to  Spring ! 

The  cricket  sings.     Its  song  ?     You  know, 
Warm  prophecies  of  dearest  days,  — 

(Horizons  lost,  of  long  ago, 
Crumble  within  the  blaze  !) 

Of  nijrhts  a-fflow  with  lijrht  that  blesses, 

re?  C  ' 

And  wine  from  Home's  enchanted  presses. 

The  cricket  sings,  and,  as  I  dream, 

Your  face  shows  tender  smile  and  tear, 

What  angels  of  the  hearth  a-gleam, 
Wingless,  have  lighted  here  ? 

Sing,  cricket,  sing  of  these  to-night; 

The  first  fire  of  our  home  is  bright ! 


264  THE  SOLDIERS   DEATH. 

THE   SOLDIER'S   DEATH. 

BY    NANCY   A.    W.    PRIEST. 

npiIEY  bore  him  to  a  cool  and  grassy  place, 

80  motionless  they  almost  deemed  him  dead, 
And  fanned  with  tender  care  the  pallid' face, 

And  with  pure  water  bathed  his  drooping  head, 
Till  his  eyes  opened,  and  a  languid  smile 

Played  round  his  dying  lips;  and  when  lie  spoke, 
They  hushed  their  very  breath  to  listen,  while 

That  low,  faint  murmur  on  the  calm  air  broke. 

"  Comrades,  my  waning  life  is  almost  fled  ; 

Death's  dampness  gathers  on  my  brow  and  cheek, 
And  from  this  gaping  wound  the  bullet  made, 

The  crimson  life-blood  oozes  while  I  speak. 
I  shall  be  resting  quietly,  ere  long, 

And  shall  not  need  your  love  and  tender  care; 
Your  hearts  are  valiant  and  your  arms  are  strong, 

Go  back,  my  comrades,  —  you  are  needed  there. 

u  But  bear  me  first  to  yonder  grassy  sod, 

Whence  I  can  turn  my  eyes  upon  the  fight  ; 
Gently  —  there.      Leave  me  now  alone  with  God, 

And  go  you  back  to  battle  for  the  right." 


THE  SOLDIERS  DEATH.  2G5 

Then  his  mind  wandered ;  and  the  beating  drum, 
The  roar  of  cannon  and  the  din  of  strife, 

Changed  to  familiar,  far-off  sounds  of  home, 
Or  sweet,  low  tones  of  mother,  child,  or  wife. 

And  the  receding  battle's  frequent  shocks, 

Softened  by  distance,  coming  on  the  breeze, 
Seemed  to  him  like  the  bleating  of  the  flocks, 

Or  hiveward  murmur  of  the  laden  bees ; 
Until  there  came  a  mighty  shout  at  length, 

A  cry  that  rose  and  swelled  to  "  victory," 
And,  opening  his  dim  eyes  with  sudden  strength, 

He  saw  the  foeman's  ranks  divide,  and  fly. 

He  rose,  —  he  sat  erect  in  his  own  blood  ; 

His  heart  throbbed  joyfully  as  when  a  boy  ; 
"  They  fly,  they  fly ! "  he  cried,  and  up  to  God 

His  spirit  passed  on  that  last  shout  of  joy. 
And  so  they  found  him  when  they  sought  him  there, 

Lifeless  and  cold  in  that  secluded  place, — 
The  rigid  fingers  clasped  as  if  in  prayer, 

And  that  last  smile  of  triumph  on  his  face. 


2G6  AFTER    THE    VICTORIES. 

AFTER  THE  VICTORIES. 

BY   HOWARD    GLYHDOX. 

TTA!  the  wine-press  of  pain  hath  been  trodden! 

And  suffering's  meed  mantles  high,  — 
The  perfect,  rare  wine,  wrought  of  patience, 

It  nioveth  aright  to  the  eye  ! 
Oh !  dark  was  the  night  while  we  trampled 

Its  death-purple  grapes  under  foot ; 
And  no  song  parted  silence  from  darkness, 

For  Liberty's  sibyl  was  mute  ! 

And  the  fiends  of  the  lowest  were  loosened, 

To  perseeute  Truth  at  their  will  ! 
They  spat  on  her  white  shining  forehead, 

She  standing  unmoved  and  still ! 
The  hiss  of  the  white-blooded  coward, 

The  vile  breath  of  Calumny's  brood, 
Befouled  and  bedarkened  the  Kingdom, 

And  poisoned  the  place  where  we  stood  ! 

We  —  treading  the  ripe  grapes  asunder, 

With  failing  and  overworked  tret; 
Alone  in  the  terrible  darkness  — 

Alone  in  the  stilling  heat  — 
With  agony-drops  raining  over 


AFTER    THE   VICTORIES  267 

Our  weak  hands  from  desolate  brows ; 
With  a  deadlier  pain  in  our  spirits, 
O'er  whose  failure  no  promise  arose  ! 

Shook  the  innermost  being  of  justice, 

Stirred  the  innermost  pulse  of  our  God; 
With  a  cry  of  remonstrance  whose  anguish 

Frighted  devils  and  saints  from  its  road  ! 
All  the  pain  of  a  long-martyred  nation,  — 

All  its  giant-heart's  overtasked  strength,  — 
In  one  Samson-like  throe  were  unfettered, 

Standing  up  for  a  hearing  at  length  ! 

And  —  even  as  we  fell  in  the  darkness  — 

Falling  down,  with  our  mouths  in  the  dust; 
With  toil-stained  and  redly-dyed  garments 

That  betokened  us  true  to  our  trust, 
When  the  laugh  of  the  scoffer  was  loudest, 

And  the  clapping  of  cowardly  hands, 
A  glory  blazed  out  from  the  Westward, 

That  startled  the  far  distant  lands  ! 


Ha !  the  wine-press  of  pain  hath  been  trodden  ! 

Now  summon  the  laborers  forth  ! 
Let  them  come  in  their  redly-dyed  garments, 

The  lion-browed  sons  of  the  North  ! 


2G8  OUR    UNION. 

Not  for  failure  their  veins  have  been  leavened 
With  the  vintage  of  Seventy-six  ! 

Nor  unworthy  the  blood  of  our  heroes 
With  its  rare  olden  currents  to  mix  ! 

Ha  !  Conquerors  !  Come  ye  out  boldly, 

Full  fronting  our  reverent  eyes  ! 
In  the  might  of  your  glorious  manhood, 

Ye  Saviours  of  Freedom,  arise ! 
Come  out  in  your  sun-ripened  grandeur, 

Ye  victors,  who  wrestled  with  wrong  ! 
Come  !  toil-worn  and  weary  with  battle  — 

We  greet  you  with  shout  and  with  song  ! 


OUR   UNION. 

BY   ALFRED    B.    61  BEET. 

/^VUR  Union,  the  gift  of  our  fathers  ! 

In  wrath  roars  the  tempest  above  ! 
The  darker  and  nearer  our  danger, 

The  wanner  and  closer  our  love  ; 
Though  stricken,  it  never  shall  perish  ; 

It  bends,  but  not  breaks,  to  the  blast ; 


OUR    UNION.  -      269 

Foes  rush  on  in  fury  to  rend  it, 
But  we  will  be  true  to  the  last. 

Our  Union,  ordained  by  Jehovah, — 

Man  sets  not  the  fiat  aside  ! 
As  well  cleave  the  welkin  asunder 

As  the  one  mighty  system  divide. 
The  grand  Mississippi  sounds  ever, 

From  pine  down  to  palm  the  decree ; 
The  spindle,  the  corn,  and  the  cotton,  — 

One  pean-shout,  Union,  to  thee  ! 

Our  Union,  the  lightning  of  battle 

First  kindled  the  flame  of  its  shrine  ! 
The  blood  and  the  tears  of  our  people 

Have  made  it  forever  divine. 
In  battle  we  then  will  defend  it ! 

Will  fight  till  the  triumph  is  won! 
Till  the  States  form  the  realm  of  the  Union 

As  the  sky  forms  the  realm  of  the  sun. 


270      THE  FISHERMAN   OF  BEAUFORT. 
THE  FISHERMAN   OF  BEAUFORT. 

BY   MRS.    FRANCES    D.    GAGE. 

rpHE  tide  comes  up,  and  the  tide  goes  down, 

And  still  the  fisherman's  boat, 
At  early  dawn  and  at  evening  shade, 

Is  ever  and  ever  afloat : 
Ilis  net  goes  down,  and  his  net  comes  up, 

And  we  hear  his  song  of  glee  : 
"  De  fishes  dey  hates  de  ole  slave  nets, 

But  comes  to  de  nets  of  de  free." 

The  tide  comes  up,  and  the  tide  goes  down, 

And  the  oysterman  below 
Is  picking  away,  in  the  slimy  sands, 

In  the  sands  ob  de  lon^  a<io. 
But  now  if  an  empty  hand  he  bears, 

He  shudders  no  more  with  fear, 
There  's  no  stretching  board  for  the  aching  bones, 

And  no  lash  of  the  overseer. 

The  tide  comes  up,  and  the  tide  goes  down, 

And  ever  I  hear  a  song, 
As  the  moaning  winds,  through  the  moss-hung  oaks, 

Sweep  surging  ever  along  : 


THE  FISHERMAN    OF  BEAUFORT.      271 

0 

"  O  massa  white  man  !  help  de  slave, 

And  de  wife  and  ehillen  too ; 
Eber  dey '11  work,  wid  de  hard,  worn  hand, 

Ef  ell  gib  'em  de  work  to  do." 

The  tide  comes  up,  and  the  tide  goes  down, 

But  it  bides  no  tyrant's  word, 
As  it  chants  unceasing  the  anthem  grand 

Of  its  Freedom,  to  the  Lord. 
The  fisherman  floating  on  its  breast 

Has  caught  up  the  key-note  true  : 
"  De  sea  works,  massa,  for 't  sef  and  God, 

And  so  must  de  brack  man  too. 

u  Den  gib  him*  de  work,  and  gib  him  de  pay, 

For  de  ehillen  and  wife  him  love  ; 
And  de  yam  shall  grow,  and  de  cotton  shall  blow, 

And  him  nebber,  nebber  rove  ; 
For  him  love  de  ole  Carlina  State, 

And  de  ole  magnolia-tree  : 
Oh  !  nebber  him  trouble  de  icy  Norf, 

Ef  de  brack  folks  am  go  free." 


- 


*  The  colored  people  use  the  word  u  hiin  "  for  "  us,''  and 
apply  the  same  pronoun  to  animate  and  inanimate  objects, 
whether  of  masculine,  feminine,  or  neuter  gender. 


272  UNITED  STATES  NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 

UNITED  STATES   NATIONAL   ANTHEM. 

DEDICATED   TO   SAMUEL    C.    REED,  ESQ. 

BY    WILLIAM   ROSS   WALLACE. 

ri  OD  of  the  Free  !  upon  Thy  breath 
Our  Flag  is  for  the  Right  unrolled, 
As  broad  and  brave  as  when  its  Stars 
First  lit  the  hallowed  time  of  old. 

For  Duty  still  its  folds  shall  fly ; 

For  Honor  still  its  glories  burn, 
Where  Truth,  Religion,  Valor,  guard 

The  patriot's  sword  and  martyr's  urn. 

No  tyrant's  impious  step  is  ours  ; 

No  lust  of  power  on  nations  rolled  : 
Our  Flag  —  for  friends,  a  starry  sky  ; 

For  traitors,  storm  in  every  fold. 

O  thus  we  '11  keep  our  Nation's  life, 
Nor  fear  the  bolt  by  despots  hurled  ; 

The  blood  of  all  the  world  is  here, 

And  they  who  strike  us  strike  the  world 

God  of  the  Free  !  our  Nation  bless 
In  its  strong  manhood  as  its  birth  ; 


ODE.  273 

And  make  its  life  a  Star  of  Hope 
For  all  the  struggling  of  the  Earth. 

Then  shout  beside  thine  Oak,  O  North ! 

O  South  !  wave  answer  with  thy  Palm ; 
And  in  our  Union's  heritage 

Together  sing  the  Nation's  Psalm  ! 


ODE. 

BY  HENRY  T.   TUCKERMAN.* 

17^ ROM  youth's  dear  haunts  resounding 

What  hallowed  voices  call ; 
Her  shrine  once  more  surrounding 

With  love  that  welcomes  all ! 
By  life's  stern  tasks  undaunted, 

With  memory's  light  imbued, 
Here  where  truth's  seeds  were  planted 

Her  blossoms  are  renewed. 

Ere  savage  foes  were  banished, 
Began  Art's  peaceful  rule  ; 

*  At  the  Centennial  Celebration  of  Dummer  Academy,  New- 
bury, Mass.,  (1863,)  this  Ode, — written  for  the  occasion  by  II. 
T.  Tuckerman,  a  former  pupil,  — was  sung  to  the  tune  of  the 
Missionary  Hymn. 

18 


274  ODE. 

Ere  ancient  woods  bad  vanished, 
Here  rose  the  church  and  school ; 

And  to  their  bounteous  mother 
The  children  now  repair, 

Each  fond  and  faithful  brother,  — 
With  festal  song  and  prayer. 

Though  battle-clouds  may  lower 

Around  our  harvest-day, 
And  treason's  subtle  power 

The  patriot's  hope  delay  ; 
Though  error's  bliiditinj*  traces 

And  sorrow's  pensive  shade 
May  calm  exultant  faces, 

And  pleasure's  dream  upbraid  ; 

Divine  the  hand  whose  guiding 

lias  brought  us  safely  back,  — 
Benign  the  strife  whose  chiding 

lias  (aught  us  duty's  track  ; 
And  blesl  the  faith  and  Learning, 

New  England,  true  and  brave, 
As  altar  lamps  keep  burning, 

Our  freedom's  ark  to  save  ! 


HO!  SONS   OF   THE  PURITAN.         275 


HO!    SONS   OF  THE   PURITAN. 

The  Cavaliers,  Jacobites,  and  Huguenots  who  settled  the 
South,  naturally  hate,  condemn  and  despise  the  Puritans  who 
settled  the  North.  The  former  are  master  races  ;  the  latter,  a 
slave  race,  descendants  of  the  Saxon  serfs.  [De  Bow's  Review. 

who  through  a  cloud, 

Not  of  war  only  but  detractions  rude, 
Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude, 
To  peace  and  truth  thy  glorious  way  hast  ploughed, 
Milton's  Sonnet  to  Cromwell. 


TTO  !  sons  of  the  Puritan  !  sons  of  the  Roundhead, 

Leave  your  fields  fallow  and  fly  to  the  war ; 
The  foe  is  advancing,  the  trumpet  hath  sounded,  — 
To  the  rescue  of  freedom,  truth,  justice,  and  law  ! 
Hear  His  voice  bid  ye  on 
Who  spake  unto  Gideon  : 
"  Rend  the  curtains  of  Midian 
From  Heshbon  to  Dor  !  " 

From  green-covered  Chalgrave,  from  Naseby  and 
Marston, 
Rich  with  the  blood  of  the  Earnest  and  True, 
The  war-cry  of  Freedom,  resounding  hath  passed 
on 
The  wings  of  two  centuries,  and  come  down  to 
you: 


276         HO!  SONS  OF  THE  PURITAN. 

"  Forward  !  to  glory  ye, 

Though  the  road  gory  be  ! 
Strong  of  arm  —  let  your  story  be  — 
And  swift  to  pursue  !  " 

List !  list !  to  the  time-honored  voices  that  loudly 

Speak  from  our  Mother-land  o'er  the  sad  waves, — 
From  Hampden's  dead  lips,  and  from  Cromwell's, 
who  proudly 
Called  freemen  to  palaces,  —  tyrants  to  graves  : 
"  Sons  of  the  Good  and  Pure ! 
Let  not  their  blood  endure 
The  attaint  of  a  brood  impure 
Of  cowards  and  slaves  !  " 

And  old  Massachusetts'  hills  echo  the  burden : 
"  Sons  of  the  Pure-in-heart  never  give  o'er  ! 
Though   blood   flow  in  rivers,  and   death   be    the 
guerdon, 
All  the  sharper  your  swords  be, —  death  welcome 
the  more ! 

Swear  ye  to  sheathe  your  swords 
Not  till  the  heathen  hordes 
On  their  craven  knees  breathe  the  words, 
*  The  Lord's  ice  res  (ore  ! '  " 

Accursed  be  the  land  that  shall  give  ye  cold  greet- 


HO!   SONS    OF    THE  PURITAN.         277 

Cursed  in  its  coffers,  and  cursed  in  its  fame  ! 
And  woe  to  the  traitors,  feigning  friendship,  and 
meeting 
Your  trust  with  assassins'  dark  weapons  of  shame ! 
As  did  Penuel's  high 
Parapets  lowly  lie, 
And  the  princes  of  Succoth  die, 
So  fare  these  the  same  ! 

Though  sharp  be  the  throes  of  these  last  tribulations, 

Look  ye  !  a  brighter  dawn  kindles  the  day  ! 
O,  children  of  Saints,  and  the  hope  of  the  Nation, 
Look  aloft !  your  deliverance  cometh  for  aye  ! 
Soon,  from  those  fairer  skies, 
White-winged,  the  herald  flies 
To  the  warders  of  Paradise, 
To  call  them  away  ! 

Then  on  to  the  battle-shock  !  and  if  in  anguish, 

Gasping,  and  feeble-pulsed,  low  on  the  field, 
Struck  down  by  the  traitor's  fell  prowess  ye  lan- 
guish, 
In  Jehovah  behold  ye  your  Refuge  and  Shield  ! 
Or,  if  in  victory, 
Doubts  shall  come  thick  to  ye, 
Trust  in  Him  —  He  shall  speak  to  ye 
The  mystery  revealed. 


278  A  PLAINT  FROM  SAVAGE'S. 

Ho  !  sons  of  the  Puritan  !  sons  of  the  Roundhead 
Leave    your   fields   fallow,   your    ships    at    tho 
shore ! 
The  foe  is  advancing —  the  trumpet  hath  sounded, 
And  the  jaws  of  their  Moloch  are  dripping  with 
gore! 

Raise  the  old  pennon's  staff ! 
Let  the  fierce  cannon's  laugh, 
Till  the  votaries  of  Amnion's  calf 
Blaspheme  ye  no  more  ! 


A  PLAINT  FROM  SAVAGE'S. 

BY  GEORGE  ALFRED  TOWKSEND. 
I. 

A  LAS  !  for  the  pleasant  peace  we  knew 

In  the  happy  summers  of  long  ago, 
When  the  rivers  were  bright  and  the  skies  were 
blue 
By  the  homes  of  Henrico. 
We  dreamed  of  wars  that  were  far  away, 
And  read,  as  in  fable,  of  blood  that  ran 
Where  the  James  and   Chiekahominy  stray, 
Through  the  groves  of  Powhattan. 


A  PLAINT  FROM  SAVAGE'S.  27f# 

II. 

'T  is  a  dream  come  true,  for  the  afternoons 

Blow  bugles  of  war  by  our  fields  of  grain, 
And  the  sabres  sink  as  the  dark  dragoons 

Come  galloping  up  the  lane ; 
The  pigeons  have  flown  from  the  eaves  and  tiles, 

The  oat-blades  have  grown  to  blades  of  steel, 
And  the  Huns  swarm  down  the  leafy  aisles 

Of  the  grand  old  Commonweal. 

in. 
They  have  torn  the  Indian  fisher's  nets 

Where  the  gray  Pamunkey  goes  toward  the  sea, 
And  blood  runs  red  in  the  rivulets 

That  babbled  and  brawled  in  glee  ; 
The  corpses  are  strewn  in  Fairy  Oak  glades, 

The  hoarse  guns  thunder  from  Drury's  Ridge, 
The  fishes  that  played  in  the  cool  deep  shades 

Are  frightened  from  Bottom  Bridge. 

IV. 

I  would  that  the  year  were  blotted  away, 

And  the  strawberries  green  in  the  hedge  again  ; 

That  the  scythe  might  swing  in  the  tangled  hay, 
And  the  squirrels  romp  in  the  glen  ; 

The  walnuts  sprinkle  the  clover  slopes 

Where  graze  the  sheep  and  the  spotted  steer, 


280  THE    VARUNA. 

And  the  winter  restore  the  golden  hopes 
That  were  trampled  in  a  year. 
Michie's  Farm,  Savage's  Station,  Va. 


THE   VARUNA. 

SUNK  APRIL  TWENTY-FIFTH,  1862. 

BY    GEORGE   H.    BOKER. 

TXTHO  has  not  heard  of  the  dauntless  Varuna  ? 
Who  has  not  heard  of  the  deeds  she  has 
done  ? 
Who  shall  not  hear,  while  the  brown  Mississippi 
Rushes  along  from  the  snow  to  the  sun  ? 

Crippled  and  leaking  she  entered  the  battle, 

Sinking  and  burning  she  fought  through  the  fray, 

Crushed  were  her  sides  and  the  waves  ran  across 
her, 
Ere,  like  a  death-wounded  lion  at  bay, 

Sternly  she  closed  in  the  last  fatal  grapple, 
Then  in  her  triumph  moved  grandly  away. 

Five  of  the  rebels,  like  satellites,  round  her, 
Burned  in  her  orbit  of  splendor  and  iear  : 

One,  like  the  pleiad  of  mystical  story, 

Shot,  terror-stricken,  beyond  her  dread  sphere. 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN    OF  1862.       281 

We  who  are  waiting  with  crowns  for  the  victors, 
Though  we  should  offer  the  wealth  of  our  store, 

Load  the  Varuna  from  deck  down  to  kelson, 
Still  would  be  niggard,  such  tribute  to  pour 

On  courage  so  boundless.     It  beggars  possession, 
It  knocks  for  just  payment  at  heaven's  bright 
door  ! 

Cherish  the  heroes  who  fought  the  Varuna ; 

Treat  them  as  kings  if  they  honor  your  way  ; 
Succor  and  comfort  the  sick  and  the  wounded ; 

Oh !  for  the  dead,  let  us  all  kneel  to  pray. 


THE   BATTLE   AUTUMN   OF   1862. 

BY   JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 

nPHE  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly, 

The  charging  trumpets  blow  ; 
Yet  rolls  no  thunder  in  the  sky, 
No  earthquake  strives  below. 

And  calm  and  patient  nature  keeps 

Her  ancient  promise  well, 
Though  o'er  her  bloom  and  greenness  sweeps 

The  battle's  breath  of  hell. 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN    OF  18G2. 

And  still  she  walks  in  golden  hours 
Through  harvest-happy  farms, 

And  still  she  wears  her  fruits  and  flowers 
Like  jewels  on  her  arms. 

What  means  the  gladness  of  the  plain, 

This  joy  of  eve  and  morn, 
The  mirth  that  shakes  the  beard  of  grain, 

And  yellow  locks  of  corn  ? 

Ah  !  eyes  may  well  be  full  of  tears, 
And  hearts  with  hate  are  hot ; 

But  even  paced  come  round  the  years, 
And  Nature  changes  no. 

She  meets  with  smiles  our  bitter  grief, 
With  songs  our  groans  of  pain  ; 

She  mocks  with  tint  of  flower  and  leaf 
The  war-field's  crimson  stain. 

Still  in  the  cannon's  pause  we  hear 
Her  sweet  thanksgiving  psalm  : 

Too  near  to  God  for  doubt  or  fear, 
She  shares  the  eternal  calm. 

She  knows  the  seed  lies  safe  below 
The  fires  that  blast  and  burn  ; 


OUR    COUNTRY.  283 

For  all  the  tears  of  blood  we  sow, 
She  waits  the  rich  return. 

She  sees,  with  clearer  eye  than  ours, 

The  good  of  suffering  born,  — 
The  hearts  that  blossom  like  her  flowers, 

And  ripen  like  her  corn. 

Oh  !  give  to  us,  in  times  like  these, 

The  vision  of  her  eves ; 
And  make  her  eyes  and  fruited  trees 

Our  golden  prophecies  ! 

Oh  !  give  to  us  her  finer  ear  I 

Above  this  stormv  din  : 
We  too  would  hear  the  bells  of  cheer 

Ring  peace  and  freedom  in. 


Y 


OUR  COUNTRY. 
E  sailors  on  the  mighty  deep, 
Ye  soldiers  of  the  land, 
Your  sacred  oaths  we  bid  ye  keep, 
We  bid  ye  faithful  stand. 
This  broad  land,  this  whole  land,  this  free  land  is 

yours,  — 
It  is  the  noble  Union  your  Constancy  secures  ! 


284  OUR    COUNTRY. 

No  narrow  State  in  this  dread  hour 

Shall  dare  to  claim  your  birth, 
Allegiance  to  the  Federal  power 
Is  more  than  Home  or  Hearth. 
This  broad  land,  this  whole  land,  this  free  land  is 

yours,  — 
It  is  the  noble  Union  your  Loyalty  secures  ! 

Keep  ye  the  mighty  river 

Unbroken  in  its  tide, 
And  the  hills  that  stand  forever, 
Let  no  mean  hand  divide. 
This  broad  land,  this  whole  land,  this  free  land  is 

yours,  — 
It  is  the  noble  Union  your  Fidelity  secures  ! 

The  laws  your  fathers  writ  in  blood 
No  impious  thought  shall  break, 
The  flag  they  bore  through  fire  and  flood 
Let  no  true  heart  forsake. 
This  broad  land,  this  whole  land,  this  free  land  is 

yours,  — 
It  is  the  noble  Union  your  Bravery  secures ! 


SYMPATHY.  285 

SYMPATHY. 

BY   MRS.   L.    H.    SIGOURNEY. 

1\/TY  country  weepeth  sore 
Above  her  fallen  brave, 
By  field,  by  grove,  by  stream  they  lie, 
Their  faces  toward  their  native  sky, 
And  scarcely  find  a  grave. 

She  listeneth  to  the  wail 

That  from  a  thousand  homes 
By  town,  by  tower,  by  prairie  bright, 
At  dawn,  at  noon,  at  dead  of  night, 

In  wild  discordance  comes. 

She  at  the  threshold  grieves, 

Where  stretched  on  pallets  lie, 
Beneath  the  surgeon's  scalpel  keen, 
The  stalwart  form,  the  noble  mien, 
Convulsed  with  agony. 

She  bendeth  o'er  the  wave, 

Where  sank  the  patriot  train 
Whose  volleying  guns  a  farewell  sent, 
As  downward  with  their  ship  they  went, 

To  the  unfathomed  main. 


286  CLARIBEVS  PRAYERS. 

She  listeneth  as  the  Earth, 

Surcharged  with  bloody  rain, 
Her  many  cherished  sons  demands  : 
Her  bold,  her  beautiful,  whose  hands 
Made  rich  her  harvest-wain. 

She  kneeleth  at  the  Throne 
Of  mercy,  day  and  night ; 
She  looketh  o'er  the  war-cloud  dim, 
With  an  unwavering  trust  in  Him 
Who  doeth  all  things  right. 


CLARIBEL'S  PRAYERS. 

rPIlE  day,  with  cold,  gray  feet,  clung  shivering  to 
the  hills, 
While  o'er  the  valley,  still    night's  rain-fringed 
curtains  fell  ; 
But  waking  blue  eyes  smiled.     "  T  is  ever  as  God 
wills ; 
He   knoweth  best,  and   be  it  rain   or  shine, 't  is 
well, 
Praise  God  I*  cried  always  little  Claribel. 

Then  sank  she  on  her  knees.     With  eager,  lifted 
hands, 


CLARIBEVS  PRAYERS.  287 

Ilsr  rosy  lips  made  haste  some  dear  request  to 
tell: 
"  O  Father !    smile,  and   save  this  fairest  of  all 
lands, 
And  make  her  free,  whatever  hearts  rebel. 
Amen  !     Praise  God !  "  cried  little  Claribel. 

u  And,  Father,"  still  arose  another  pleading  prayer, 
u  Oh  !  save  my  brother,  in  the  rain  of  shot  and 
shell ; 
Let  not    the  death-bolt,  with   its  horrid  streaming 
hair, 
Dash  light  from  those  sweet  eyes  I  love  so  well. 
Amen  !  Praise  God  !  "  wept  little  Claribel. 

"  But,  Father,  grant  that  when  the  glorious  fight  is 
done, 
And  up  the  crimson  sky  the  shouts  of  Freedom 
swell, 
Grant  that  there  be  no  nobler  victor  'neath  the  sun 
Than  he  whose  golden  hair  I  love  so  well. 
Amen  !     Praise  God  !  "  cried  little  Claribel. 

When  gray  and  dreary  day  shook  hands  with  grayer 
night, 
The  heavy  air  was  filled  with  clangor  of  a  bell. 
u  Oh,   shout ! "    the   herald   cried,   his   worn   eyes 
brimmed  with  light : 


288  CLAR1BEUS  PRAYERS. 

"  'T  is   victory  !      Oh  !    what  glorious  news   to 

tell !  ■ 
11  Praise    God !     He   heard   my    prayer,"   cried 

Claribel. 

"  But,  pray  you,  soldier,  was   my  brother   in  the 

fight, " 

And  in  the  fiery  rain  ?     Oh  !  fought  he  brave 

and  well  ?  " 
"  Dear   child,"  the  herald  cried,  "  there  was  no 

braver  sight 
Than  his   young  form,  so  grand  'mid  shot  and 

shell." 
"  Praise  God  ! "  cried  trembling  little  Claribel. 

"  And  rides  he  now  with  victor's  plumes  of  red, 
While  trumpets'  golden  throats  his  coming  steps 
foretell  ?  " 
The  herald  dropped  a  tear  :  "  Dear  child,"  he  softly 
said, 
"  Thy  brother   evermore  with    conquerors  shall 

dwell." 
"  Praise    God !     He   heard   my   prayer,"   cried 
Claribel. 

u  With  victors  wearing  crowns  and  bearing  palms," 
he  said 


CHRISTMAS   AND   NEW   TEAR.         289 

And  snow  of  sudden  fear  upon  the  rose-lips  fell. 
"  Oh  !  sweetest  herald,  say  my  brother  lives,"  she 
plead. 
"  Dear    child,    he    walks   with    angels   who    in 

strength  excel. 
Praise  God,  who  gave  this  glory,  Claribel." 

The   cold,  gray  day  died   sobbing  on   the  weary 
hills, 
While  bitter  mourning  on  the  night-wind  rose 
and  fell. 
"  Oh,  child,"   the  herald  wept,  "  't  is  as  the  dear 
Lord  wills, 
He  knoweth  best ;  and  be  it  life  or  death,  't  is 

well." 
"  Amen  !     Praise  God  ! "  sobbed  little  Claribel. 


CHRISTMAS  AND  NEW  YEAR,  1862-3. 

BY    LUCY   LARCOM. 

i^UR  Christmas  dawns  on  bloody  times  ; 
The  battle-clarion  wakes  the  blast ; 
The  funeral-drums  throb  thick  and  fast, 
And  drown  the  morry  morning-chimes. 
19 


290  CHRISTMAS  AND  NEW   YEAR. 

Yet  keep,  O  land,  your  festival, 

In  memory  of  the  Man  who  came,  — 
The  Man  Divine,  to  bear  our  blame, 

And  breathe  His  blessings  over  all ! 

He  reigns  not  yet  the  Prince  of  Peace  : 
He  came  to  bring  on  earth  a  sword. 
Till  men  love  Freedom's  Gospel  word, 

The  sound  of  war  shall  never  cease. 

'T  was  Liberty  he  came  to  bring. 

When  He  ascended  up  on  high, 

He  captive  led  captivity, 
And  made  the  world  with  Freedom  rimr 


B 


This  glorious  gift  He  gave  to  men. 

The  stronger  from  the  weaker  steals  ; 

But  hark  !  a  clang  of  triumph  peals  ! 
The  lost  shall  be  restored  again. 

Behold,  O  army  of  the  Lord  ; 

The  presence  that  among  you  stands ! 

Most  clean,  most  pure,  must  be  the  hands 
That  close  on  victory  His  award. 

O  nation  working  His  behest ; 
O  army  raised  to  wage  His  war, 


CHRISTMAS  AND  NEW   YEAR.         291 

Accept  the  end  He  called  you  for, 
And  soon  the  land  shall  be  at  rest. 


Give  freely  as  of  old  He  gave ; 

Your  fathers  owned  the  boon  from  Him. 

Before  the  golden  hour  grows  dim, 
Stamp  it  with  Freedom  for  the  slave. 

Ye  hear,  ye  children  of  the  free ; 

And  where  an  ancient  wrong  hath  stood, 
Ye  plant,  and  water  with  your  blood, 

Your  Christmas  Tree  of  Liberty. 

The  Christ-Child  smiles  its  branches  through, 
With  heaven's  clear  smile  on  black  and  white  ; 
The  Tree  has  filled  the  land  with  light 

And  cooled  its  wounds  with  balm  and  dew. 

Dark  faces,  you  no  more  shall  be 

Darker  with  shadows  of  our  hate  ; 

Receive  our  greeting-gift,  though  late, 
A  Happy  New- Year,  and  be  Free  ! 


292      THE   COLOR   SERGEANT. 
THE  COLOR  SERGEANT. 

BY   A.   D.    F.    RANDOLPH. 

"YTOU  say  that  in  every  battle 

No  soldier  was  braver  than  he, 
As,  aloft  in  the  roar  and  the  rattle, 

He  carried  the  flag  of  the  Free : 
I  knew,  ah  !  I  knew  he  'd  ne'er  falter, 

I  could  trust  him,  the  dutiful  boy. 
My  Robert  was  wilful,  —  but  Walter, 

Dear  Walter,  was  ever  a  joy. 

And  if  he  was  true  to  his  mother, 

Do  you  think  he  his  trust  would  betray, 
And  give  up  his  place  to  another, 

Or  turn  from  the  danger  away  ? 
He  knew  while  afar  he  was  straying, 

He  felt  in  the  thick  of  the  fiirht, 
That  at  home  his  poor  mother  was  praying 

For  him  and  the  cause  of  the  Right ! 

Tell  me,  comrade,  who  saw  him  when  dying, 
What  he  said,  what  he  did,  if  you  can  ; 

On  the  field  in  his  agony  lying, 
Did  he  suffer  and  die  like  a  man  ? 

Do  you  think  he  once  wished  he  had  never 


THE   COLOR  SERGEANT.  293 

Borne  arms  for  the  Right  and  the  True  ? 
Nay,  he  shouted  Our  Country  forever  ! 
When  he  died  he  was  praying  for  you  ! 

0  my  darling  !  my  youngest  and  fairest, 
Whom  I  gathered  so  close  to  my  breast ; 

1  called  thee  my  dearest  and  rarest, 

And  thou  wert  my  purest  and  best ! 
I  tell  you,  O  friend  !  as  a  mother, 

Whose  full  heart  is  breaking  to-day, 
The  Infinite  Father  —  none  other  — 

Can  know  what  He 's  taken  away. 

I  thank  you  once  more  for  your  kindness, 

For  this  lock  of  his  auburn  hair  : 
Perhaps  't  is  the  one  I  in  blindness 

Last  touched,  as  we  parted  just  there  ! 
When  he  asked,  through  his  tears,  should  he  linger 

From  duty,  I  answered  him,  Nay : 
And  he  smiled,  as  he  placed  on  my  finger 

The  ring  I  am  wearing  to-day. 

I  watched  him  leap  into  that  meadow  ; 

There,  a  child,  he  with  others  had  played ; 
I  saw  him  pass  slowly  the  shadow 

Of  the  trees  where  his  father  was  laid  ; 
And  there,  where  the  road  meets  two  others, 


294  TEE   COLOR  SERGEANT. 

Without  turning,  he  went  on  his  way: 
Once  his  face  toward  the  foe  —  not  his  mother's 
Should  unman  him,  or  cause  him  delay. 

It  .may  be  that  some  day  your  duty 

Will  carry  you  that  way  again  ; 
When  the  field  shall  be  riper  in  beauty, 

Enriched  by  the  blood  of  the  slain  ; 
Would  you  see  if  the  grasses  are  growing 

On  the  grave  of  my  boy  ?     Will  you  see 
If  a  flower,  e'en  the  smallest,  is  blowing, 

And  pluck  it,  and  send  it  to  me  ? 

Don't  think,  in  my  grief,  I'm  complaining; 

I  gave  him,  God  took  him,  't  is  right ; 
And  the  cry  of  his  mother  remaining 

Shall  strengthen  his  comrades  in  fight. 
Not  for  vengeance,  to-day,  in  my  weeping, 

Goes  my  prayer  to  the  Infinite  Throne. 
God  pity  the  foe  when  he  's  reaping 

The  harvest  of  that  he  has  sown  ! 

Tell  his  comrades  these  words  of  his  mother' 

All  over  the  wide  land  to-day, 
The  Rachels,  who  weep  with  each  other, 

Together  in  agony  pray. 
They  know,  in  their  great  tribulation, 


MASSACHUSETTS.  295 

By  the  blood  of  their  children  outpoured, 
We  shall  smite  down  the  foes  of  the  Nation, 
In  the  terrible  day  of  the  Lord. 


MASSACHUSETTS. 

BY   B.    P.    SHILLABER. 

HEAR  an  army's  mighty  tread, 

And  the  sound  of  war's  alarms ; 

I  read  a  thought,  serene  but  dread, 

Written  in  gleaming  arms  ; 
A  solemn  purpose  fills  the  air 
Like  the  holy  effluence  of  prayer. 

I  feel  the  thrill  of  a  people's  heart 
In  the  drum-tap's  stirring  beat, 

And  the  quickened  pulse's  fervid  start 
In  the  rush  of  hasty  feet, 

And  the  gleam  of  vengeful  glances  shines 

Along  the  bayonets'  glistening  lines. 

I  see  a  nation's  triumph  stand 

In  acts  of  generous  trust, 
Where  wealth  unclasps  its  iron  hand 


296  MASSACHUSETTS. 

And  scatters  the  needed  dust,  — 
Giving  the  sinews  of  golden  life 
To  the  holy  cause  of  Freedom's  strife. 

'Tis  Massachusetts'  glance  of  light.  — 
The  glare  of  the  glittering  steel, — 

The  earnest  of  her  awful  might 
In  the  vital  thrill  we  feel ; 

And  her  voice  is  the  cannon's  blasting  breath 

That  speaks  to  Treason  the  doom  of  Death. 

Honest  old  Commonwealth  !  to  thee 

Thy  children  look  with  pride  : 
Thy  name 's  a  password  to  the  Free, 

With  Right  identified ; 
Thy  bidding  we  hear,  like  a  mother's  word, 
And  our  hearts  to  their  deepest  depths  are  stirred. 

God  bless  thee  !  every  heart  outpours, 

And  ewry  arm  grows  strong, 
From  mountain  bound  to  ocean  shores, 

Thy  glory  to  prolong  ; 
To  live  in  thy  cause  is  an  honor  high 
But  a  greater  in  such  a  cause  to  die. 


THE  SOLDIERS  SWEETHEART.        297 
THE   SOLDIER'S   SWEETHEART. 

BY    GEORGE    \V.    BUNGAY. 

T  GO  down  to  the  sea, 

Where  the  waves  speak  to  me 
Of  my  darling,  the  soul  of  my  soul ; 

But  her  footprints  no  more 

Mark  the  desolate  shore, 
Where  she  tempted  the  billows  to  roll. 

There  the  sad  billows  break, 

Like  my  heart  for  her  sake, 
On  the  lonely  and  desolate  shore ; 

For  the  waves  of  the  sea 

Are  now  sighing  with  me, 
For  a  mortal,  now  mortal  no  more. 

With  my  heart  filled  with  tears, 

And  my  hopes  chilled  with  fears, 
By  the  grave  of  my  darling  I  knelt ; 

And  I  uttered  a  prayer 

On  the  listening  air, 
Whose  dew  wept  the  sorrow  I  felt. 

There  the  winds  wove  a  shroud 
Of  a  dim  passing  cloud, 


298         THE  SOLDIER'S  SWEETHEART. 

Betwixt  me  and  the  bright  stars  above  ; 
And  the  form  in  its  fold, 
Like  the  shape  under  mould, 

Was  the  form  of  the  angel  I  love. 

Would  that  I  were  a  flower, 
Born  of  sunshine  and  shower ; 

I  would  grow  on  the  grave  of  the  dead. 
I  would  sweeten  the  air 
With  the  perfume  of  prayer, 

Till  my  soul  on  its  incense  had  fled. 

And  I  never  would  fade 

In  the  delicate  shade 
Of  the  tree  in  whose  shadow  she  lies. 

There  my  petals  should  bloom, 

By  her  white  rural  tomb, 
When  the  stars  closed  their  beautiful  eyes. 

Now  I  see  her  in  dreams 
On  the  banks  of  the  streams, 

In  the  dear  land  of  exquisite  bliss, 
Where  the  sweep  of  her  wings, 
And  the  song  that  she  sings, 

Oft  awake  me  to  sadness  in  this. 


THE  RISING   OF  THE  NORTH.  299 


THE  RISING   OF   THE   NORTH. 

TTIGH  on  the  mountains 

A  new  day  is  dawning ; 
Over  the  eastern  hills 
Breaks  the  glad  morning. 

Up  from  the  valleys 

Glad  eyes  are  turning, 
Full  of  the  holy  fires 

In  the  heart  burning. 

Long  was  the  night-watch, 

Bitter  with  woe ; 
Dim  burned  the  altar-fires, — 

Faintly  and  low. 

Now,  from  the  orient, 

Leaps  the  new  day, 
Chasing  the  shadows 

Of  midnight  away. 

Freedom  has  risen, 

And  men  shall  once  more 
Gird  on  the  armor 

Their  forefathers  wore. 


300  THE  RISING    OF  THE  NORTH. 

And  dare  to  do  battle 

For  Justice  and  Right; 
Die  as  their  fathers  died,  — 

Facing  the  fight. 

Like  some  old  organ-peal, 

Solemn  and  grand, 
The  anthem  of  Freedom 

Sweeps  through  the  land. 

The  hand  of  a  master 

Touches  the  keys, 
And  the  soul-stirring  symphony 

Swells  on  the  breeze. 

Out  of  the  clouded  sky 

A  new  light  is  breaking ; 

©  ©  i 

From  the  deep  sleep  of  guilt 
The  nation  is  waking. 

High  on  the  mountains 

The  new  day  is  dawning  ; 
Soon  in  the  valleys 

Shall  break  the  glad  morning. 

©  © 

Cambridge,  Mass.  J.  n.  m 


THE  CAVALRY  CHARGE.  301 

THE   CAVALRY   CHARGE. 

BY    EDMUND    C.    STEDMAN. 

/^VUR  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air, 
^^Our  pulses  with  their  purpose  tingle ; 
The  foeman's  fires  are  twinkling  there 
He  leaps  to  hear  our  sabres  jingle  ! 

Halt  ! 
Each  carbine  sent  its  whizzing  ball : 
Now,  cling  !  clang  !  forward  all, 
Into  the  fight ! 

Dash  on  beneath  the  smoking  dome : 

Through  level  lightnings  gallop  nearer  ! 
One  look  to  Heaven  !    No  thoughts  of  home  : 
The  guidons  that  we  bear  are  dearer. 

Charge ! 
Cling  !  clang !  forward  all ! 
Heaven  help  those  whose  horses  fall : 
Cut  left  and  right ! 


n 


They  flee  before  our  fierce  attack  ! 

They  fall  1  they  spread  in  broken  surges. 
Now,  comrades,  bear  our  wounded  back, 

And  leave  the  foeman  to  his  dirges. 
Wheel  ! 


302  THE  WIDOWED  SWORD. 

The  bugles  sound  the  swift  recall : 
Cling  !  clang  !  backward  all ! 
Home,  and  good-night ! 


THE   WIDOWED   SWORD. 

ANONYMOUS. 

rpHEY  have  sent  me  the  sword  that  my  brave 
boy  wore 
On  the  field  of  his  young  renown,  — 
On  the  last  red  field,  where  his  faith  was  sealed, 
And  the  sun  of  his  days  went  down. 
Away  with  the  tears 

That  are  blinding  me  so ; 
There  is  joy  in  his  years, 

Though  his  young  head  be  low  ; 
And  I  '11  gaze  with  a  solemn  delight,  evermore, 
On  the  sword  that  my  brave  boy  wore. 

*T  was  for  Freedom  and  Home  that  I  gave  him  away, 

Like  the  sons  of  his  race  of  old  ; 
And   though,  aged   and  gray,  I  am  childless  this 
day, 
He  is  dearer  a  thousandfold. 
There  's  a  glory  above  him 


THE    WIDOWED  SWORD.  303 

To  hallow  his  name  ; 
A  land  that  will  love  hiin 
Who  died  for  its  fame  ; 
And  a  solace  will  shine  when  my  old  heart  is 

sore, 
Round  the  sword  that  my  brave  boy  wore. 

All  so  noble,  so  true,  —  how  they  stood,  how  they 
fell 
In  the  battle,  the  plague,  and  the  cold  ; 
Oh,  as  bravely  and  well  as  e'er  story  could  tell 
Of  the  flower  of  the  heroes  of  old. 
Like  a  sword  through  the  foe 

Was  that  fearful  attack, 
That  so  bright  ere  the  blow 
Comes  so  bloodily  back ; 
And  foremost  among  them,  his  colors  he  bore,  — 
And  here  is  the  sword  that  my  brave  boy  wore. 

It  was  kind  of  his  comrades,  ye  know  not  how  kind  ; 

It  is  more  than  the  Indies  to  me  ; 
Ye  know  not  how  kind  and  how  steadfast  of  mind 
The  soldier  to  sorrow  can  be. 

They  know  well  how  lonely, 

How  grievously  wrung, 
Is  the  heart  that  its  only 
Love  loses  so  young  ; 


304  THE   CHANT  OF   TREASON. 

And  they  closed  his  dark  eyes  when  the  battle 

was  o'er, 
And  sent  his  old  father  the  sword  that  he  wore. 


THE  CHANT   OF   TREASON. 

BY  HENRY   BERGH. 

Y/I^HEN   suspicion    is    lulled,  when   confidence 

reigns, 
When  daylight  departs,  and  darkness  attains; 
When  innocence  sleeps,  and  honor  reposes, 
When  industry  rests  on  its  pillow  of  roses ; 
When  the  justice  of  man  is  drugg'd  with  deceit, 
And  the  plans  of  the  traitor  are  all  complete  ! 

Then  —  goblet  on  high, 

Hark  1  to  his  mad  cry : 
Hurrah  !  here 's  success  to  bold  Treason  ! 

What    though    that    ancient    and    world-honored 

State, 
Whose  laws  both  protect  the  small  and  the  great, 
That  freights  every  ambient  breath  of  the  sea 
With   tidings   of   Hope   to  the    Slave  —  from   the 

Free  ? 
What  though  its  banner  be  spangled  with  stars, 


THE  CHANT   OF    TREASON.  305 

Was  woven  'mid  blood,  privations,  and  scars  ? 

Well !  what 's  that  to  me  ? 

Come,  join  in  the  glee  : 
Hurrah  !  here  's  success  to  bold  Treason  ! 

In  every  age,  and  in  every  clime, 

I've  lived,  and  shall  live,  to  the  end  of  Time! 

No  country  have  I,  no  watchword  I  cry, 

I  dwell  in  the  soul,  I  speak  through  the  eye ; 

In  earth  —  in  the  air —  in  the  bubbling  stream  — 

I  lurk  unsuspected  —  my  sway  is  supreme  ! 

So,  fill  up  the  glass, 

And  let  the  toast  pass : 
Hurrah  !  here  's  success  to  bold  Treason  ! 

In  places  of  trust,  in  the  Forum  I  sit ; 

In  the  Council  of  State  my  meshes  I  knit  : 

By  the  side  of  the  nation's  honored  choice 

Is  heard  my  subdued,  pestiferous  voice  ; 

And  the  sinews  of  war  —  the  army  and  fleet  — 

Are  toys  for  my  genius  to  work  out  defeat : 

So,  drink  of  the  bowl, 

Without  stint  or  toll  : 
Hurrah  !  here 's  success  to  bold  Treason  ! 

Would'st  learn  whence  I  came,  —  the  name  of  my 
sire  ? 


306  TIIE    CHANT   OF    TREASON. 

I  'm  issue  of  Hell,  I  'm  Destruction  —  dire  ! 

On  man's  perjured  faith,  and  war's  cruel  blast; 

On  the  groans  of  the  slave,  I  make  my  repast ; 

In  paralyzed  trade,  —  in  commerce  destroyed, — 

In  national  ruin,  —  my  means  are  employed. 
Then  drink,  drink,  my  friends, 
The  toast  Treason  sends  : 

Hurrah  !  here  's  success  to  bold  Treason  ! 

But,  lo  !  in  ocean's  indistinct  distance, 

AVI i at  ensigns  are  those  in  hostile  resistance  ? 

How,  like  a  monster  in  pained  respiration. 

The  sea  bears  them  down,  concealing  their  nation. 

Now  they  rise  :  one  is  ours —  "  the  skull  and  cross 

bars;" 
The  other  is  Freedom's  !    the  proud  Stripes  and 
Stars  ! 

Bang  !  bang  !  hear  the  roar ! 

It  sinks  —  it  is  o'er  ! 
Hurrah  !  here  's  success  to  bold  Treason  ! 

And  yet  there  are  times,  I  frankly  declare, 
When  these  triumphs  much  more  resemble  despair; 
And  that  (lag  which  we  saw  just  now  in  the  skies, 
With  memories  haunt  me  —  oYrllowing  my  eyes; 
And  could  1  return  —  nay,  heed  not,  I  pray, 
I  wander  in  mind,  knowing  not  what  I  Bay. 


TEE  FALLEN  SOLDIER.  307 

Shout !  shout  !  I  implore, 
Louder  still  than  before  : 
Hurrah  !  here  's  success  to  bold  Treason  ! 

Again  yonder  flag  !  sank  it  not  'neath  the  main  ? 

Behold,  it  is  up  —  high  as  ever  again  ! 

What  means  that  acclaim  ?  the  plank,  spar,  and 

rope  ! 
Great  God,  they  Ye  for  me  !  't  is  the  death-knell  of 

hope ! 
Adieu,  friends  —  I  choke  —  I  strangle  —  I  die  ! 
Hark,  hark  !  to  that  deaf 'ning,  triumphant  cry ;  — 
Fill,  fill  to  the  brim, 
Chant  Columbia's  hymn  ! 
Hurrah  !  here  is  death  to  bold  Treason  ! 

London  American,  March,  1861. 


THE  FALLEN  SOLDIER. 

T>  EAR  off  your  comrade,  boys !  See,  he  has 
-°         fallen  ; 

The  blow  at  his  leader  aimed,  he  made  his  own : 
Loose  from  the  bridle  the  stiffened  hand,  softly  : 

Only  this  morning  it  fed  his  good  roan. 


308  THE  FALLEN  SOLDIER. 

Who  knows  this  brave  lad,  for  he  scarce  can  be 
twenty, 

That  just  for  his  country  was  eager  to  die  ? 
Just  for  his  country,  without  hope  of  glory, 

He  dropped  from  the  saddle  in  darkness  to  lie. 

Bear  him  in  pity,  and  bear  him  in  anguish ; 

You    think  them   soft    lips,    but  they  changed 
without  moan  ; 
For  I,  who   rode  next   him,  sprang  forward  and 
clasped  him, 
And  held  both  his  hands,  to  the  last,  in  my  own. 

We  knew  not  the  great  heart  that  bore  him  right 
onward, 

Beating  its  twenty  good  years  out  so  well ; 
But,  comrades,  I  felt  the  thin  hands  of  his  mother, 

Bearing  him  up  through  my  own  when  he  fell. 

Sad  't  is  to  think  of  the  lonely  brown  homestead 
Set  in  the  bleak,  barren,  North  hills  afar  ; 

There   they   have  loved   him  so,   there  they  will 
mourn  him  so, 
Never  returning  to  them  from  the  war. 


THE  DRUMMER-BOY  OF  MARBLEIIEAD.     309 

THE  DRUMMER-BOY  OF  MARBLEHEAD. 
TTO  !  arms  to  strike  and  forward  feet, 

Ere  dries  the  blood  bv  dastards  shed ! 
While  scowls  and  gleaming  eyes  that  meet 

Bewail  our  murdered  dead. 
From  Berkshire's  mountains  to  the  Bay, 

Her  rally  Massachusetts  rings, 

Curse  on  the  faltering  step  to  day 

That  shame  upon  her  brings  ! 

This  April  day  which  frowning  dies, 

Betrothed  in  its  natal  hour 
To  hills  that  prop  New  England's  skies, 

Brought  vengeance  for  its  dower  : 
Then  arms  to  strike  and  forward  feet, 

Ere  dries  our  blood  by  dastards  shed  ! 
For  men,  upon  each  village  street 

Are  mustering,  as  at  Marblehead. 

Pauses  a  homeward  schoolboy  there ; 

Absorbed  in  thought  he  stands ; 
While  patriots  pass  with  brows  of  care, 

And  muskets  in  their  hands. 
Then  starting,  to  a  comrade  spoke 

That  gallant  bov  of  Marblehead  : 
"  The  tether  of  my  books  is  broke, 

Brace  me  the  drum  instead  !  " 


310     THE  DR  UMMER-B  OY  OF  MARBLEHEAD, 

Now  serried  ranks  are  slanting  grim 

Their  bayonets  in  the  summer  beams  ; 
And,  keeping  step  to  Freedom's  hymn, 

Southward  the  column  streams. 
"  Your  blessing,  mother !  cease  to  cry, 

There  really  is  no  cause  for  dread ; 
Our  grand  old  tunes  will  make  them  fly  ! " 

Said  the  bold  boy  of  Marblehead. 

New  England's  sons  were  smiting  sore, 

With  whistling  ball  and  sabre  stroke, 
The  rebel  rout  which  fast  before 

Fled  for  the  swamps  of  Roanoke. 
And  in  that  hour  of  steel  and  flame, 

On  and  exultant,  still  there  led, 
While  falling  foemen  felt  his  aim, 

The  drummer-boy  of  Marblehead. 

"  Once  more  we  '11  have  our  good  old  air, 

'T  is  fitting  on  this  glorious  field, 
*T  will  quell  the  traitors  in  their  lair, 

And  teach  them  how  to  yield  ! " 
It  swelled,  to  stir  our  hearts  like  flame  ; 

Then  back  a  hostile  bullet  Sped, 
And  Death  delivered  up  to  Fame 

The  drummer-boy  of  Marblehead. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  LITTLE    DAUGHTER.    311 
THE  SOLDIER'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER. 

BY   MRS.    M.   A.    DENISON. 

npHE  night  was  stormy,  dark,  and  cold; 

My  way  led  through  the  city, 
Where  wretched  buildings,  gray  and  old, 
Seemed  stained  with  tears  of  pity. 

Few  were  the  cheerful  sounds  I  heard, 

No  laughter  wild  and  free ; 
But  once  the  sweet  voice  of  a  bird 

Piped  up  and  plained  to  me. 

A  little  bird  unblessed  with  wings, 

Her  dark,  sad  eyes  all  tearful ; 
Ah,  God  !  to  see  such  tender  things 

Out  in  the  storm  is  fearful. 

And  thus  she  plained  :  — u  Oh  !  stranger  hear  ; 

I  never  begged  before  ; 
But  mother  has  been  dead  a  year, 

And  father  's  gone  to  war. 


e 


11  And  yesterday  the  work  gave  out 
By  which  I  earned  a  penny ; 

Last  night  I  had  a  crust  of  bread ; 
To-night  I  have  n't  any. 


312     THE  SOLDIER'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER. 

And  I  am  very  hungry,  sir." 

I  brought  her  bread  —  to  spare  — 

Then  up  into  the  old  gray  house 
Climbed  by  the  broken  stair. 

A  tremulous  light  threw  shadows  long 
Over  the  cheerless  room  ; 

0  !  childhood  —  shrined  in  deathless  song, 
Are  such  your  spots  of  bloom  ? 

1  asked  her  name,  her  tender  age  ; 
Intensest  pity  won  her ; 

A  little  maid  of  seven  years, 
And  all  this  woe  upon  her  ! 

14  My  name  is  Nelly  Grover,  sir; 

My  father  loved  me  dearly ;  — 
And  is  it  true,  as  people  say, 

That  war  is  ended,  —  nearly  ?  " 

'T  was  strange,  but  as  she  spoke,  I  chanced 

To  look  my  paper  over  : 
And  there  I  read  —  "  Shot  through  (he  heart 

A  private,  William  Grover" 

O,  awful  hour  !  can  I  forget 
Her  tears,  her  broken  sobbing; 


THE  SOLDIER'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER.     313 

The  little  heart  I  pressed  to  mine 
With  bitter  anguish  throbbing  ! 


And  as  the  light  grew  dimmer, 
And  the  wild  cries  fainter  fell  ; 

Unto  my  soul  there  came  a  voice,  — 
I  marked  its  cadence  well : 

"  I  sleep  beneath  the  traitor's  sod 

I  died  for  Liberty  ; 
I  give  my  spirit  unto  God,  — 

My  little  child  to  thee. 

"  Teach  her  to  hold  as  sacred  trust 
Her  patriot  father's  doom  ; 
Teach  her  to  pray  that  from  his  dust, 
Freedom's  fair  flowers  may  bloom  !  * 

Thus  to  my  home,  most  tenderly, 
With  loving  words  I  brought  her ; 

Ah  !  only  death  could  tear  from  me 
That  soldier's  little  daughter. 


314  LAST    WORDS. 

LAST  WORDS. 

BY   HORATIO   ALGER,    JR. 

p^EAR  Charlie,"  breathed  a  soldier, 

"  O,  comrade,  true  and  tried, 
Who  in  the  heat  of  battle 

Pressed  closely  to  my  side ; 
I  feel  that  I  am  stricken, 

My  life  is  ebbing  fast ; 
I  fain  would  have  you  with  me, 

Dear  Charlie,  till  the  last. 

"  It  seems  so  sudden,  Charlie  ; 

To  think  to-morrow's  sun 
Will  look  upon  me  lifeless, 

And  I  not  twenty-one  ! 
I  little  dreamed  this  morning 

'T  would  brim*  my  last  campaign  ; 
God's  ways  are  not  as  our  ways, 

And  I  will  not  complain. 

"  There's  one  at  home,  dear  Charlie, 
Will  mourn  for  me,  when  dead, 
Whose  heart  —  it  is  a  mother's  — 
Can  scarce  be  comforted. 


LAST   WORDS.  315 

You  '11  write  and  tell  her,  Charlie, 

With  my  dear  love,  that  I 
Fought  bravelv  as  a  soldier  should, 

And  died  as  he  should  die. 

u  And  you  will  tell  her,  Charlie, 

She  must  not  grieve  too  much  ; 
Our  country  claims  our  young  lives, 

For  she  has  need  of  such. 
And  where  is  he  would  falter, 

Or  turn  ignobly  back, 
When  Duty's  voice  cries  '  Forward  ! ' 

And  Honor  lights  the  track  ? 

u  And  there  's  another,  Charlie, 

(His  voice  became  more  low,) 
When  thoughts  of  her  come  o'er  me, 

It  makes  it  hard  to  go. 
This  locket  in  my  bosom, 

She  gave  me  just  before 
I  left  my  native  village, 

For  the  fearful  scenes  of  war. 

u  Give  her  this  message,  Charlie, 
Sent  with  my  dying  breath  : 
To  her  and  to  my  banner, 
I'm  ■  faithful  unto  death* 


316  LAST    WORDS. 

And  if,  in  that  far  country 

Which  I  am  going  to, 
Our  earthly  ties  may  enter, 

I'll  there  ray  love  renew. 

"  Come  nearer,  closer,  Charlie  ; 

My  head  I  fain  would  rest, 
It  must  be  for  the  last  time, 

Upon  your  faithful  breast. 
Dear  friend,  I  cannot  tell  you 

How  in  my  heart  I  feel 
The  depth  of  your  devotion,  — 

Your  friendship  strong  as  steel. 

u  \y0  >ve  watched  and  camped  together 

In  sunshine  and  in  rain  ; 
We  've  shared  the  toils  and  perils 

Of  more  than  one  campaign  ; 
And  when  my  tired  feet  faltered 

Beneath  the  noontide  heat, 
Your  words  sustained  my  courage,  — 

Gave  new  strength  to  my  feet. 

"  And  once,  —  't  was  at  Antietam,  — 
Pressed  hard  by  thronging  foes, 
I  almost  sank  exhausted 

Beneath  their  cruel  blows, — 


LAST   WORDS.  317 

When  you,  dear  friend,  undaunted, 

With  headlong  courage  threw 
Your  heart  into  the  contest, 

And  safelv  brought  me  through. 

"  My  words  are  weak,  dear  Charlie, 

My  breath  is  growing  scant ; 
Your  hand  upon  my  heart  —  there, 

Can  you  not  hear  me  pant  ? 
Your  thoughts  I  know  will  wander 

Sometimes  to  where  I  lie  : 
How  dark  it  grows  !     True  comrade 

And  faithful  friend,  good-by  !  " 

A  moment,  and  he  lay  there 

A  statue  pale  and  calm, 
His  youthful  head  reclining 

Upon  his  comrade's  arm. 
His  limbs  upon  the  greensward 

Were  stretched  in  careless  grace, 
And  by  the  fitful  moon  was  seen 

A  smile  upon  his  face. 


318  THE  FURLOUGH. 

THE  FURLOUGH. 

ANONYMOUS. 

/^VNCE  more  the  music  of  his  step 

Rings  on  the  gravel  path. 
Once  more  I  meet  his  living  eyes, 

And  hear  his  boyish  laugh. 
Once  more  one  arm  is  round  me  thrown, 

But  through  my  tears  I  see 
The  other  palsied  by  his  side,  — 

His  badge  of  loyalty. 

Day  that  I  did  not  hope  to  see ; 

Yet  over  all  the  bliss 
There  hangs  a  web  of  memory 

Not  all  unlike  to  this. 
I'm  thinking  of  a  dream  that  came 

When  she  had  passed  away, — 
One  star,  whose  vanishing  so  turned 

To  night  our  summer  day. 

I  dreamed,  amid  the  garden  walk 

I  wandered  when  a  child, 
Her  face  looked  out  amid  the  flowers, 

And  on  me  sweetly  smiled. 


TIIE  FURLOUGH.  319 

I  clasped  again  the  tiny  form, 

As  mothers  only  may, 
And  yet,  and  yet,  I  sighing  sobbed, 

With  me  she  cannot  stay. 

Her  mission  here  is  past,  I  said  ; 

And  fragrance  from  the  flowers, 
A  fancy  strange,  she  gathered  up, 

I  thought,  for  heavenly  bowers. 
Unlike  the  scene,  yet  similar, 

The  fountain  of  the  tear 
That  rises  at  the  sight  of  him, 

My  sturdy  volunteer. 

Too  short  these  golden  autumn  days 

So  canopied  with  blue  ; 
The  hours  drop  as  the  dropping  leaves,  — 

As  glorious  their  hue. 

We  almost  bless  the  fatal  aim 

That  felled  the  stalwart  arm, 
And  gave  us  for  a  year  of  pain, 

These  days  of  sunny  calm. 
But  soon  the  unnerved  pulse  will  feel 

The  hero-current  flow, 
And  then  the  soul  will  mount  again 

To  meet  the  dreadful  foe. 


820  SPRING  AT   THE   CAPITAL. 

O,  not  alone  for  fireside  bliss, 

And  not  for  pleasant  toys, 
Are  we  to  train  our  darling  girls, 

Our  lion-hearted  boys. 
Some  beckon  us  to  heavenly  seats 

Amid  celestial  choirs  ; 
While  through  the  night  we  pray  for  some 

Around  the  lone  camp-fires. 
Bridgeport,  Conn.  E.  A.  B.  L. 


SPRING  AT  THE  CAPITAL 

BY    MRS.    PAUL    AKEKS. 

HE  poplar  drops  beside  the  way 
Its  tasselled  plumes  of  silver  gray; 
The  chestnut  pouts  its  great  brown  buds,  impatient 
for  the  laggard  May. 


T 


The  honeysuckles  lace  the  wall ; 
The  hyacinths  grow  fair  and  tall; 
And  mellow  sun,  and  pleasant  wind,  and  odorous 
bees  are  over  all. 

Down-looking  in  this  snow-white  bud, 
How  distant  seems  the  war's  red  flood! 
How  far  remote  the  streaming  wounds,  the  sicken- 
in  <r  scent  of  human  blood  ! 

C1 


SPRING  AT   THE   CAPITAL.  321 

Nor  Nature  does  not  recognize 
This  strife  that  rends  the  earth  and  skies  ; 
No  war-dreams   vex  the  winter  sleep  of   clover- 
heads  and  daisy-eyes. 

She  holds  her  even  way  the  same, 
Though  navies  sink  or  cities  flame  ; 
A  snow-drop  is  a  snow-drop  still,  despite  the  nation's 
joy  or  shame. 

When  blood  her  grassy  altar  wets, 
She  sends  the  pitying  violets 
To  heal  the  outrage  with  their  bloom,  and  cover  it 
with  soft  regrets. 

O,  crocuses  with  rain-wet  eyes, 
O,  tender-lipped  anemones, 
What  do  you  know  of  agony,  and  death  and  blood- 
won  victories  ? 

No  shudder  breaks  your  sunshine  trance, 
Though  near  you  rolls,  with  slow  advance, 
Clouding  your  shining  leaves  with  dust,  the  anguish- 
laden  ambulance. 

Yonder  a  white  encampment  hums  ; 
The  clash  of  martial  music  comes  ; 
21 


322  SPRING  AT   THE   CAPITAL. 

And  now  your  startled  stems  are  all  a-treinble  with 
the  jar  of  drums. 

"Whether  it  lessen  or  increase, 
Or  whether  trumpets  shout  or  cease, 
Still  deep  within  your  tranquil  hearts  the  happy 
bees  are  humming  M  Peace  ! " 

O  flowers !  the  soul  that  faints  or  grieves, 
New  comfort  from  your  lips  receives ; 
Sweet  confidence  and  patient  faith  are  hidden  in 
your  healing  leaves. 

Help  us  to  trust,  still  on  and  on, 
That  this  dark  night  will  soon  be  gone, 
And  that  these  battle-stains  are  but  the  blood-red 
trouble  of  the  dawn  — 

Dawn  of  a  broader,  whiter  day 
Than  ever  blessed  us  with  its  ray,  — 
A  dawn  beneath  whose  purer  light  all  guilt  and 
wrong  shall  fade  away. 

Then  shall  our  nation  break  its  bands, 
And,  silencing  the  envious  lands, 
Stand  in  the  Marching  light  onsbamed,  with  spot- 
less robe,  and  clean,  white  hands. 


THE  REGIMENT  RETURNED. 
THE  REGIMENT  RETURNED. 

BY   TARK    BENJAMIN. 

rplIE  fife  blows  shrill,  the  drum  beats  loud ; 
I  hear  the  tramp  of  many  feet 
Come  echoing  up  the  city  street, 
With  cheers  and  welcomes  from  the  crowd. 

It  is  the  regiment  returned 

That  went  away  three  months  ago ; 
Fearless  they  met  the  Southern  foe, 

And  with  true  patriot  ardor  burned. 

Their  looks  and  dress  are  somewhat  worn ; 

But  every  gun  is  free  from  rust, 

And  that  is  honorable  dust 
Upon  their  caps  and  knapsacks  borne. 

Their  banner  still  is  held  on  high, 

Though  soiled  with  wind  and  rain  and  smoke, 

As  bravely  as  when  first  it  broke 
In  light,  like  sunrise,  on  the  sky. 

In  the  full  front  of  battle  shown, 
It  onward  led  the  serried  files 
O'er  many  rough  and  weary  miles, 

Through  wild,  beleaguered  paths  unknown. 


324  THE  REGIMENT  RETURNED. 

Against  its  folds  the  shot  were  cast, 

From  hidden  batteries,  charged  with  death  ; 
And  though  its  bearer  held  his  breath, 

*T  was  carried  upward  to  the  last. 

And  now,  still  marching  where  it  waves, 
The  bold  survivors  of  the  band, 
Returning  to  their  own  dear  land, 

Have  left  behind  their  comrades'  graves. 

But,  vowing  to  avenge  their  loss, 

Soon,  where  those  comrades  fought  and  fell, 
They  '11  meet  once  more,  and  conquer  well 

Beneath  the  Union's  starry  cross. 

'T  is  right  to  welcome  home  with  cheers 
These  patriot  soldiers,  fresh  from  fight  ; 
Though  some  no  longer  greet  our  sight, 

But  claim  their  country's  grateful  tears. 

For  them  we  mourn  ;  for  these  we  raise 
Our  happy  plaudits  to  the  sky, 
And,  as  their  ranks  come  marching  by, 

Reward  their  courage  with  our  praise. 


VOICE  OF   THE  NORTHERN   WOMEN   325 
VOICE  OF  THE  NORTHERN  WOMEN. 

BY  PIICEBE   CARY. 

"13  OUSE,  freemen,  the  foe  has  arisen, 
His  hosts  are  abroad  on  the  plain ; 
And,  under  the  stars  of  your  banner, 
Swear  never  to  strike  it  again  ! 

O,  fathers,  who  sit  with  your  children, 
Would  you  leave  them  a  land  that  is  free  ? 

Turn  now  from  their  tender  caresses, 
And  put  them  away  from  your  knee. 

O,  brothers,  we  played  with  in  childhood, 
On  hills  where  the  clover  bloomed  sweet ; 

See  to  it,  that  never  a  traitor 

Shall  trample  them  under  his  feet. 

O,  lovers,  awake  to  your  duty 
From  visions  that  fancy  has  nursed  ; 

Look  not  in  the  eyes  that  would  keep  you  ; 
Our  country  has  need  of  you  first. 

And  we,  whom  your  lives  have  made  blessed, 
Will  pray  for  your  souls  in  the  fight ; 

That  you  may  be  strong  to  do  battle 
For  Freedom,  for  God,  and  the  Eight. 


326  THE  LATEST   WAR  NEWS. 

We  are  daughters  of  men  who  were  heroes ; 

We  can  smile  as  we  bid  you  depart ; 
But  never  a  coward  or  traitor 

Shall  have  room  for  a  place  in  our  heart. 

Then  quit  you  like  men  in  the  conflict, 
Who  fight  for  their  home  and  their  land  ; 

Smite  deep,  in  the  name  of  Jehovah, 
And  conquer,  or  die  where  you  stand. 


O 


THE   LATEST   WAR  NEWS. 
H  pale,  pale  face !     Oh  helpless  hands  ! 


Sweet  eyes  by  fruitless  watching  wronged, 
Yet  turning  ever  towards  the  lands 
Where  war's  red  hosts  are  thronged. 

She  shudders  when  they  tell  the  tale, 
Of  some  great  battle  lost  and  won  ! 

Her  sweet  child-face  grows  old  and  pale, 
Her  heart  falls  like  a  stone ! 

She  sees  no  conquering  flag  unfurled, 
She  hears  no  victory's  brazen  roar, 

But  a  dear  face,  which  was  her  world, — 
Perchance  she  '11  kiss  no  more  ! 


THE  LATEST   WAR  NEWS.  327 

Ever  there  comes  between  her  sight 
And  the  glory  that  they  rave  about, 

A  boyish  brow,  and  eyes  whose  light 
Of  splendor  hath  gone  out. 

The  midnight  glory  of  his  hair, 

Where  late  her  fingers,  like  a  flood 

Of  moonlight,  wandered  —  lingering  there  — 
Is  stiff  and  dank  —  with  blood  ! 

She  must  not  shriek,  she  must  not  moan, 
She  must  not  wring  her  quivering  hands  ; 

But  sitting  dumb  and  white,  alone, 
Be  bound  with  viewless  bands. 

Because  her  suffering  life  enfolds 

Another  dearer,  feebler  life, 
In  death-strong  grasp  her  heart  she  holds, 

And  stills  its  torturing  strife. 

Yester-eve,  they  say,  a  field  was  won. 

Her  eves  asks  tidings  of  the  fight ; 
But  tell  her  of  the  dead  alone 

Who  lay  out  in  the  night ! 


In  mercy  tell  her  that  his  name 
Was  not  upon  that  fatal  list, 


328  SONG    OF    TEE  SOLDIERS. 

That  not  among  the  heaps  of  slain 
Dumb  are  the  lips  she  's  kissed. 

Oh,  poor,  pale  child  !     Oh,  woman  heart ! 

Its  weakness  triumphed  o'er  by  strength  ! 
Love  teaching  pain  discipline's  art, 

And  conquering  at  length  ! 


SONG   OF  THE  SOLDIERS. 

BY   PRIVATE   MILES   O'RIELLY. 

Air  —  Jamie's  on  the  Stormy  Sea. 

/COMRADES  known  in  marches  many, 

Comrades,  tried  in  dangers  many, 
Comrades,  bound  by  memories  many, 

Brothers  ever  let  us  be. 
Wounds  or  sickness  may  divide  us, 
Marching  orders  may  divide  us, 
But,  whatever  fate  betide  us, 

Brothers  of  the  heart  are  we. 

Comrades,  known  by  faith  the  clearest, 
Tried  when  death  was  near  and  nearest, 
Bound  we  are  by  ties  the  dearest, 
Brothers  evermore  to  be. 


COLUMBIA'S  INVOCATION.  329 

And,  if  spared,  and  growing  older, 
Shoulder  still  in  line  with  shoulder, 
And  with  hearts  no  thrill  the  colder, 
Brothers  ever  we  shall  be. 

By  communion  of  the  banner,  — 
Crimson,  white,  and  starry  banner, — 
By  the  baptism  of  the  banner, 

Children  of  one  Church  are  we. 
Creed  nor  faction  can  divide  us, 
Race  nor  language  can  divide  us, 
Still,  whatever  fate  betide  us, 

Children  of  the  Flag  are  we  ! 


COLUMBIA'S  INVOCATION. 

BY   CHARLES  A.    BARRY. 

/COLUMBIA,  washing  out  with  tears 

And  hero-blood  her  only  shame, 
Turns  to  her  Flag  of  eighty  years, 

Immortal  in  its  stars  and  flame : 
O  beauteous  gift  of  God  1  she  cries  ; 

Gleam  out  on  every  hill  and  plain  ! 
Wave  o'er  my  people  as  they  rise 

To  win  me  back  my  fame  again. 


330  COLUMBIA'S  INVOCATION. 

Her  Eagle  from  his  loftiest  peak 

The  pride  of  all  his  nature  shows  — 
Screams  wildlv  —  with  a  clashing  beak  — 

Defiance  to  her  gathering  foes. 
Aloft,  he  swoops  on  tireless  wings, 

Not  him  can  cannon -crash  appall ! 
Through  fire  and  smoke  his  an^er  rinjjs, 

Accordant  to  her  clarion  call. 

Then  rouse,  ye  freemen ;  sound  a  blast 

From  all  your  trumpets,  loud  and  long ! 
Let  not  th*  avenging  time  go  past, 

Be  swift,  and  terrible,  and  strong ! 
Uplift  the  Flag;  let  not  a  star 

Be  sundered  from  its  field  of  blue ! 
With  fond  lips  kiss  each  sacred  bar 

That  runs  our  deathless  emblem  through, 

And,  God  be  with  you  !     Hasten  on  ! 
With  martial  pMM  rend  the  sky  ! 
Let  bayonets  glisten  in  the  sun, 

And  all  your  battle-banners  fly  ! 
And  smite  to  kill  !     See  !  Freedom  bleeds! 

She  calls  you  with  her  stifled  breath ! 
Rebellion  to  her  temple  speeds  : 

March  on,  to  Victory  or  Death  ! 


THE  NORTHERN   VOLUNTEERS.       331 
THE  NORTHERN  VOLUNTEERS. 

BY   GEORGE   BOWERYEM. 

TT7E  arm  by  thousands  strong, 

"     To  battle  for  the  Right, 
And  this  shall  be  our  song, 
As  we  march  into  the  fight : 

With  our  country's  banner  o'er  us, 
And  traitor  ranks  before  us, 
Let  Freedom  be  the  chorus 

Of  the  Northern  Volunteers ! 
Now  hearken  to  the  cheers 
Of  the  Northern  Volunteers  ! 

[Chorus  of  cheering.] 

When  the  battle  rages  round, 
And  the  rolling  of  the  drum 
And  the  trembling  of  the  ground 
Tell  usurpers  that  we  come  !  — 

Then  the  War's  deep-mouthed  thunder 
Shall  our  lightnings  cleave  asunder, 
And  our  enemies  shall  wonder 
At  the  Northern  Volunteers  ! 
Shall  wonder  at  the  cheers 
Of  the  Northern  Volunteers  ! 


332        THE  NORTHERN   VOLUNTEERS. 

True,  loyal  sons  are  we 

Of  men  who  fought  and  died 
To  leave  their  children  free, 
Whom  dastards  now  deride  ! 

Tremble,  traitors  !  at  the  beaming 
Of  our  starry  banner  gleaming, 
When,  like  a  torrent  streaming, 

Come  the  Northern  Volunteers! 
Dealing  death  amid  their  cheers, 
Come  the  Northern  Volunteers  ! 

When  Northern  men  unite, 

Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
For  Freedom's  cause  to  fight, 

Shall  Wrong  the  Right  withstand  ? 
With  our  country's  banner  o'er  us, 
And  rebels  base  before  us, 
And  Liberty  the  chorus 

Of  the  Northern  Volunteers,  — 
How  terrible  the  cheers 

Of  the  Northern  Volunteers ! 

Where  Freedom's  banner  waves, 

Over  land  or  over  sea, 
It  shall  not  cover  slaves  1 

They  shall  touch  it  and  be  free  ! 
Tremble,  tyrants!  at  the  Hashing 


COMING  HOME.  333 

Of  our  arms,  when  onward  dashing, 
You  shall  hear  their  fetters  crashing, 

Broke  by  Northern  Volunteers ! 
And  your  slaves  give  back  the  cheers 

Of  the  Northern  Volunteers  ! 


God  of  Freedom  !  give  Thy  Might 

To  the  spirits  of  Thy  sons ! 
To  their  bayonets  in  fight ! 

To  the  death  within  their  guns  ! 
Make  their  deeds  in  battle  gory 
Burn  and  brightly  shine  in  glory, 
When  the  world  shall  read  the  story 

Of  the  Northern  Volunteers ! 
And  echo  back  the  cheers 
Of  the  Northern  Volunteers  ! 


COMING  HOME. 


ANONYMOUS. 


rpilEY  are  coming  home,  coming  home, 

Brother  and  lover,  father  and  son, 
Friend  and  foe,  —  they  are  coining  home 
To  rest,  for  their  work  is  done. 


334  COMING  HOME. 

They  come  from  the  hospital,  picket,  and  field,  - 
From  iron  boat  and  frowning  fort,  — 

In  silent  companies,  slowly  wheeled, 
In  the  rhythm  of  a  doleful  thought. 

This  was  a  father  of  women  and  men, 

Gray-haired,  but  hale,  and  strong  of  limb ; 

The  bayonet  flashed  and  flashed  again, 
And  the  old  man's  eyes  grew  dim. 

Here  was  a  form  of  manly  grace  ; 

The  bomb-shell  groaning  through  the  air 
Drenched  with  his  blood  a  pictured  face 

And  a  curl  of  silken  hair. 

This  was  a  bright-eyed,  venturesome  boy ; 

Back  from  the  perilous  picket-ground 
They  bore  him,  waked  from  his  dream  of  joy 

To  a  ghastly,  fatal  wound. 

And  thus  for  three  davs  lingering, 

He  talked  in  wandering,  rapid  speech, 

Of  mother  and  home,  and  the  cooling  spring 
His  lips  could  almost  reach. 

They  are  coming  home  :  but  not  as  they  went, 
With  the  flying  flag  and  stirring  band ; 


AFTER  ALL.  335 

With  the  tender  word  and  message  sent 
From  the  distant  waving  hand. 


AFTER  ALL. 

BT  WILLIAM   WINTER. 

^PHE  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 

The  work  of  the  reaper  is  done, 
And  the  golden  woodlands  redden 
In  the  blood  of  the  dying  sun. 

At  the  cottage-door  the  grandsire 

Sits  pale  in  his  easy-chair, 
While  the  gentle  wind  of  twilight 

Plays  with  his  silver  hair. 

A  woman  is  kneeling  beside  him  ; 

A  fair  young  head  is  pressed, 
In  the  first  wild  passion  of  sorrow, 

Against  his  aged  breast. 

And  far  from  over  the  distance 

The  faltering  echoes  come 
Of  the  flying  blast  of  trumpet, 

And  the  rattling  roll  of  drum. 


336  AFTER  ALL. 

And  the  grandsire  speaks  in  a  whisper : 

11  The  end  no  man  can  see ; 
But  we  give  him  to  his  country, 

And  we  give  our  prayers  to  Thee." 

The  violets  star  the  meadows, 
The  rose-buds  fringe  the  door, 

And  over  the  grassy  orchard 
The  pink-white  blossoms  pour. 

But  the  grandsire's  chair  is  empty, 

The  cottage  is  dark  and  still ; 
There 's  a  nameless  grave  in  the  battle-field, 

And  a  new  one  under  the  hill. 

And  a  pallid,  tearless  woman 

By  the  cold  hearth  sits  alone, 
And  the  old  clock  in  the  corner 

Ticks  on  with  a  steady  drone. 


THE    KND. 


TtM  iMJkJJJll  ■  '  4l 


